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THE   $30,000    BEQUEST 


BOOKS  BY 
MARK  TWAIN 

ST.  JOAN  OF  ARC 

THE  INNOCENTS  ABROAD 

ROUGHING  IT 

THE  GILDED  AGE 

A  TRAMP  ABROAD 

FOLLOWING  THE  EQUATOB 

PUDD'NHEAD  WILSON 

SKETCHES  NEW  AND  OLD 

THE  AMERICAN  CLAIMANT 

CHRISTIAN  SCIENCE 

A  CONNECTICUT  YANKEE  AT  THE  COURT  OP 

KING  ARTHUR 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  HUCKLEBERRY  FINN 
PERSONAL  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  JOAN  OF  ARC 
LIFE  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI 
THE  MAN  THAT  CORRUPTED  HADLEYBURQ 
THE  PRINCE  AND  THE  PAUPER 
THE  $30,000  BEQUEST 
THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TOM  SAWYEB 
TOM  SAWYER  ABROAD 
WHAT  IS  MAN? 
THE  MYSTERIOUS  STBANGEB 
ADAM'S  DIARY 
A  DOG'S  TALE 

A  DOUBLE-BARRELED  DETECTIVE  STORY 
EDITORIAL  WILD  OATS 
EVE'S  DIARY 


IS  SHAKESPEARE  DEADT 

CAPT.  STORMFIELD'S  VISIT  TO  HEAVEN 

A  HORSE'S  TALE 

THE  JUMPING  FROG 

THE  £1.000,000  BANK-NOTE 

TRAVELS  AT  HOME 

TRAVELS  IN  HISTORY 

MARK  TWAIN'S  LETTERS 

MARK  TWAIN'S  SPEECHES 


HABPER  ft  BROTHERS.  NEW  YORK 

[ESTABLISHED  1817] 


MARK   TWAIN    AT    HIS    7OTH    BIRTHDAY 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 


AND    OTHER    STORIES 


BY 

MARK  TWAIN 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER   df   BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK     AND     LONDON 


THB  $30,000  BEQUEST 

Copyright,  1872,  1874,  is*".  1904.  1905.  1006.  by  HARM»  &  BROTHERS 

Copyright,  1880,  1884.  by  HOUGHTON,  Mir  FUN  &  Co. 
Copyright,  1902,  by  THE  NORTH  AMERICAN  REVIEW  PUBLISHING  Co. 

Copyright,  1003,  by  SAMUEL  L.  CLEMENS 
Copyright,  1917,  by  MARK  TWAIN  COMPANY 

Printed  in  the  United  States  ot  America 
B-y 


v*\ 

CONTENTS 


THE  $30,000  BEQUEST i 

A  DOG'S  TALK 48 

WAS  IT  HEAVEN?    OR  HELL?       65 

A  CURE  FOR  THE  BLUES 99 

THE  ENEMY  CONQUERED;  OR,  LOVE  TRIUMPHANT      ...  123 

THE  CALIFORNIAN'S  TALS 184 

\  HELPLESS  SITUATION 196 

A  TELEPHONIC  CONVERSATION       204 

*\x    EDWARD  MILLS  AND  GEORGE  BENTON:   A  TALE     ....  209 

THE  FIVE  BOONS  OF  LIFE 218 

THE  FIRST  WRITING-MACHINES 224 

.        ITALIAN  WITHOUT  A  MASTER 229 

J     ITALIAN  WITH  GRAMMAR 243 

^     A,  BURLESQUE  BIOGRAPHY 254 

How  TO  TELL  A  STORY 263 

GENERAL  WASHINGTON'S  NEGRO  BODY-SERVANT      ....  271 

Wrr  INSPIRATIONS  OF  THE  "TWO-YEAR-OLDS" 276 

.   AN  ENTERTAINING  ARTICLE       281 

-     A  LETTER  TO  THE  SECRETARY  OF  THE  TREASURY  ....  291 

1  AMENDED  OBITUARIES 292 

'    A  MONUMENT  TO  ADAM 296 

A  HUMANE  WORD  FROM  SATAN 299 

INTRODUCTION  TO  "THE  NEW  GUIDE  OF  THE  CONVERSATION 

IN  PORTUGUESE  AND  ENGLISH" 301 

ADVICE  TO  LITTLE  GIRLS 305 

POST-MORTEM  POETRY       307 

THE  DANGER  OF  LYING  IN  BED 315 

PORTRAIT  OF  KING  WILLIAM  III 320 

DOES  THE  RACE  OF  MAN  LOVE  A  LORD? 325 

EXTRACTS  FROM  ADAM'S  DIARY 342 

EVE'S  DIARY 357 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


MARK   TWAIN    AT   HIS   7OTH    BIRTHDAY 

"POOR   LITTLE   DOGGIE,   YOU  SAVED  HIS  CHILD"    .     .      .  F*imt  p  62 

"SONO  DISPIACENTISSIMO" "  3JO 

"THEY  ENLARGED  THE  KING" "  234 

"I  HOPE  SAREBBE  HAS  NOT  MADE  A  MISTAKE"  ...  "  236 

'"SERIOUS  DISGRACE  ON  THE  OLD  OLD  BRIDGE'"    .    .  "  339 

'"THE  REVOLVERATION  IN  THEATRE"' "  34! 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 


CHAPTER  I 

AKESIDE  was  a  pleasant  little  town  of  five  or 
six  thousand  inhabitants,  and  a  rather  pretty 
one,  too,  as  towns  go  in  the  Far  West.  It  had  church 
accommodations  for  thirty-five  thousand,  which  is 
the  way  of  the  Far  West  and  the  South,  where  every- 
body is  religious,  and  where  each  of  the  Protestant 
sects  is  represented  and  has  a  plant  of  its  own.  Rank 
was  unknown  in  Lakeside — unconfessed,  anyway; 
everybody  knew  everybody  and  his  dog,  and  a 
sociable  friendliness  was  the  prevailing  atmosphere. 

Saladin  Foster  was  book-keeper  in  the  principal 
store,  and  the  only  high-salaried  man  of  his  profession 
in  Lakeside.  He  was  thirty-five  years  old,  now;  he 
had  served  that  store  for  fourteen  years;  he  had 
begun  in  his  marriage-week  at  four  hundred  dollars 
a  year,  and  had  climbed  steadily  up,  a  hundred  dol- 
lars a  year,  for  four  years;  from  that  time  forth  his 
wage  had  remained  eight  hundred — a  handsome 
figure  indeed,  and  everybody  conceded  that  he  was 
worth  it. 

His  wife,  Electra,  was  a  capable  helpmeet,  although 


MARK   TWAIN 

— like  himself — a  dreamer  of  dreams  and  a  private 
dabbler  in  romance.  The  first  thing  she  did,  after 
her  marriage — child  as  she  was,  aged  only  nineteen — 
was  to  buy  an  acre  of  ground  on  the  edge  of  the 
town,  and  pay  down  the  cash  for  it — twenty-five 
dollars,  all  her  fortune.  Saladin  had  less,  by  fifteen. 
She  instituted  a  vegetable  garden  there,  got  it  farmed 
on  shares  by  the  nearest  neighbor,  and  made  it  pay 
her  a  hundred  per  cent,  a  year.  Out  of  Saladin's  first 
year's  wage  she  put  thirty  dollars  in  the  savings-bank, 
sixty  out  of  his  second,  a  hundred  out  of  his  third,  a 
hundred  and  fifty  out  of  his  fourth.  His  wage  went 
to  eight  hundred  a  year,  then,  and  meantime  two 
children  had  arrived  and  increased  the  expenses,  but 
she  banked  two  hundred  a  year  from  the  salary, 
nevertheless,  thenceforth.  When  she  had  been  mar- 
ried seven  years  she  built  and  furnished  a  pretty  and 
comfortable  two-thousand-dollar  house  in  the  midst 
of  her  garden-acre,  paid  half  of  the  money  down  and 
moved  her  family  in.  Seven  years  later  she  was 
out  of  debt  and  had  several  hundred  dollars  out 
earning  its  living. 

Earning  it  by  the  rise  in  landed  estate;  for  she  had 
long  ago  bought  another  acre  or  two  and  sold  the 
most  of  it  at  a  profit  to  pleasant  people  who  were 
willing  to  build,  and  would  be  good  neighbors  and 
furnish  a  general  comradeship  for  herself  and  her 
growing  family.  She  had  an  independent  income 
from  safe  investments  of  about  a  hundred  dollars  a 
year;  her  children  were  growing  in  years  and  grace; 
and  she  was  a  pleased  and  happy  woman.  Happy  in 
her  husband,  happy  in  her  children,  and  the  husband 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

and  the  children  were  happy  in  her.    It  is  at  this 
point  that  this  history  begins. 

The  youngest  girl,  Clytemnestra — called  Clytie  for 
short — was  eleven;  her  sister,  Gwendolen — called 
Gwen  for  short — was  thirteen;  nice  girls,  and  comely. 
The  names  betray  the  latent  romance-tinge  in  the 
parental  blood,  the  parents'  names  indicate  that  the 
tinge  was  an  inheritance.  It  was  an  affectionate 
family,  hence  all  four  of  its  members  had  pet  names. 
Saladin's  was  a  curious  and  unsexing  one — Sally;  and 
so  was  Electra's — Aleck.  All  day  long  Sally  was  a 
good  and  diligent  book-keeper  and  salesman;  all  day 
long  Aleck  was  a  good  and  faithful  mother  and 
housewife,  and  thoughtful  and  calculating  business 
woman;  but  in  the  cozy  living-room  at  night  they 
put  the  plodding  world  away,  and  lived  in  another 
and  a  fairer,  reading  romances  to  each  other,  dream- 
ing dreams,  comrading  with  kings  and  princes  and 
stately  lords  and  ladies  in  the  flash  and  stir  and 
splendor  of  noble  palaces  and  grim  and  ancient 
castles. 


CHAPTER  II 

NOW  came  great  news!  Stunning  news — joyous 
news,  in  fact.  It  came  from  a  neighboring 
state,  where  the  family's  only  surviving  relative 
lived.  It  was  Sally's  relative — a  sort  of  vague  and 
indefinite  uncle  or  second  or  third  cousin  by  the 
name  of  Tilbury  Foster,  seventy  and  a  bachelor, 
reputed  well  off  and  correspondingly  sour  and  crusty. 
Sally  had  tried  to  make  up  to  him  once,  by  letter, 
in  a  bygone  time,  and  had  not  made  that  mistake 
again.  Tilbury  now  wrote  to  Sally,  saying  he  should 
shortly  die,  and  should  leave  him  thirty  thousand 
dollars,  cash;  not  for  love,  but  because  money  had 
given  him  most  of  his  troubles  and  exasperations, 
and  he  wished  to  place  it  where  there  was  good  hope 
that  it  would  continue  its  malignant  work.  The 
bequest  would  be  found  in  his  will,  and  would  be 
paid  over.  Provided,  that  Sally  should  be  able  to 
prove  to  the  executors  that  he  had  taken  no  notice 
of  the  gift  by  spoken  word  or  by  letter,  had  made  no 
inquiries  concerning  the  moribund 's  progress  toward 
the  everlasting  tropics,  and  had  not  attended  the  funeral. 
As  soon  as  Aleck  had  partially  recovered  from  the 
tremendous  emotions  created  by  the  letter,  she  sent 
to  the  relative's  habitat  and  subscribed  for  the  local 
paper. 

4 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

Man  and  wife  entered  into  a  solemn  compact,  now, 
to  never  mention  the  great  news  to  any  one  while  the 
relative  lived,  lest  some  ignorant  person  carry  the 
fact  to  the  death-bed  and  distort  it  and  make  it 
appear  that  they  were  disobediently  thankful  for 
the  bequest,  and  just  the  same  as  confessing  it  and 
publishing  it,  right  in  the  face  of  the  prohibition. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  Sally  made  havoc  and  con- 
fusion with  his  books,  and  Aleck  could  not  keep  her 
mind  on  her  affairs,  nor  even  take  up  a  flower-pot  or 
book  or  a  stick  of  wood  without  forgetting  what  she 
had  intended  to  do  with  it.  For  both  were_dreaming. 

"Thir-ty  thousand  dollars!" 

All  day  long  the  music  of  those  inspiring  words  sang 
through  those  people's  heads. 

From  his  marriage-day  forth,  Aleck's  grip  had 
been  upon  the  purse,  and  Sally  had  seldom  known 
what  it  was  to  be  privileged  to  squander  a  dime  on 
non-necessities. 

"Thir-ty  thousand  dollars!"  the  song  went  on  and 
on.  A  vast  sum,  an  unthinkable  sum! 

All  day  long  Aleck  was  absorbed  in  planning  how 
to  invest  it,  Sally  in  planning  how  to  spend  it. 

There  was  no  romance-reading  that  night.  The 
children  took  themselves  away  early,  for  the  parents 
were  silent,  distraught,  and  strangely  unentertaining. 
The  good-night  kisses  might  as  well  have  been  im- 
pressed upon  vacancy,  for  all  the  response  they  got; 
the  parents  were  not  aware  of  the  kisses,  and  the 
children  had  been  gone  an  hour  before  their  absence 
was  noticed.  Two  pencils  had  been  busy  during  that 
hour — note-making;  in  the  way  of  plans.  It  was 
5 


MARK    TWAIN 

Sally  who  broke  the  stillness  at  last.    He  said,  with 
exultation: 

"Ah,  it  '11  be  grand,  Aleck!  Out  of  the  first  thou- 
sand we'll  have  a  horse  and  a  buggy  for  summer,  and 
a  cutter  and  a  skin  lap-robe  for  winter." 

Aleck  responded  with  decision  and  composure — 

"Out  of  the  capital?  Nothing  of  the  kind.  Not 
if  it  was  a  million!" 

Sally  was  deeply  disappointed;  the  glow  went  out 
of  his  face. 

"Oh,  Aleck!"  he  said,  reproachfully.  "We've  al- 
ways worked  so  hard  and  been  so  scrimped;  and  now 
that  we  are  rich,  it  does  seem — 

He  did  not  finish,  for  he  saw  her  eye  soften;  his 
supplication  had  touched  her.  She  said,  with  gentle 
persuasiveness : 

"We  must  not  spend  the  capital,  dear,  it  would 
not  be  wise.  Out  of  the  income  from  it — 

"That  will  answer,  that  will  answer,  Aleck!  How 
dear  and  good  you  are !  There  will  be  a  noble  income, 
and  if  we  can  spend  that — " 

"Not  all  of  it,  dear,  not  all  of  it,  but  you  can 
spend  a  part  of  it.  That  is,  a  reasonable  part.  But 
the  whole  of  the  capital — every  penny  of  it — must 
be  put  right  to  work,  and  kept  at  it.  You  see  the 
reasonableness  of  that,  don't  you?" 

"Why,  ye-s.  Yes,  of  course.  But  we'll  have  to 
wait  so  long.  Six  months  before  the  first  interest 
falls  due." 

"Yes — maybe  longer." 

"Longer,  Aleck?  Why?  Don't  they  pay  half- 
yearly?" 

6 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

"That  kind  of  an  investment — yes;  but  I  sha'n't 
invest  in  that  way." 

"What  way,  then?" 

"For  big  returns." 

"Big.    That's  good.    Go  on,  Aleck.    What  is  it?" 

"Coal.  The  new  mines.  Cannel.  I  mean  to  put 
in  ten  thousand.  Ground  floor.  When  we  organize, 
we'll  get  three  shares  for  one." 

"By  George,  but  it  sounds  good,  Aleck!  Then  the 
shares  will  be  worth — how  much?  And  when?" 

"About  a  year.  They'll  pay  ten  per  cent,  half- 
yearly,  and  be  worth  thirty  thousand.  I  know  all 
about  it;  the  advertisement  is  in  the  Cincinnati 
paper  here." 

"Land,  thirty  thousand  for  ten — in  a  year!  Let's 
jam  in  the  whole  capital  and  pull  out  ninety!  I'll 
write  and  subscribe  right  now — to-morrow  it  may 
be  too  late. 

He  was  flying  to  the  writing-desk,  but  Aleck 
stopped  him  and  put  him  back  in  his  chair.  She  said : 

"Don't  lose  your  head  so.  We  mustn't  subscribe 
till  we've  got  the  money;  don't  you  know  that?" 

Sally's  excitement  went  down  a  degree  or  two, 
but  he  was  not  wholly  appeased. 

"Why,  Aleck,  we'll  have  it,  you  know — and  so  soon, 
too.  He's  probably  out  of  his  troubles  before  this; 
it's  a  hundred  to  nothing  he's  selecting  his  brimstone- 
shovel  this  very  minute.  Now,  I  think — " 

Aleck  shuddered,  and  said : 

"How  can  you,  Sally!  Don't  talk  in  that  way,  it 
is  perfectly  scandalous." 

"Oh  well,  make  it  a  halo,  if  you  like,  I  don't  care 
7 


MARK    TWAIN 

for  his  outfit,  1  was  only  just  talking.  Can't  you  let 
a  person  talk?" 

"But  why  should  you  want  to  talk  in  that  dreadful 
way?  How  would  you  like  to  have  people  talk  so 
about  you,  and  you  not  cold  yet?" 

"Not  likely  to  be,  for  one  while,  I  reckon,  if  my 
last  act  was  giving  away  money  for  the  sake  of  doing 
somebody  a  harm  with  it.  But  never  mind  about 
Tilbury,  Aleck,  let's  talk  about  something  worldly. 
It  does  seem  to  me  that  that  mine  is  the  place  for 
the  whole  thirty.  What's  the  objection?" 

"All  the  eggs  in  one  basket — that's  the  objection." 

"All  right,  if  you  say  so.  What  about  the  other 
twenty?  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  that?" 

"There  is  no  hurry;  I  am  going  to  look  around 
before  I  do  anything  with  it." 

"All  right,  if  your  mind's  made  up,"  sighed  Sally. 
He  was  deep  in  thought  awhile,  then  he  said: 

"There'll  be  twenty  thousand  profit  coming  from 
the  ten  a  year  from  now.  We  can  spend  that,  can't 
we,  Aleck?" 

Aleck  shook  her  head. 

"No,  dear,"  she  said,  "it  won't  sell  high  till  we've 
had  the  first  semi-annual  dividend.  You  can  spend 
part  of  that." 

"Shucks,  only  that — and  a  whole  year  to  wait! 
Confound  it,  I — " 

"Oh,  do  be  patient!  It  might  even  be  declared  in 
three  months — it's  quite  within  the  possibilities." 

"Oh,  jolly!  oh,  thanks!"  and  Sally  jumped  up  and 
kissed  his  wife  in  gratitude.  "  It  '11  be  three  thousand 
—three  whole  thousand!  how  much  of  it  can  we 
8 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

spend,  Aleck?    Make  it  liberal—do,  dear,  that's  a 
good  fellow." 

Aleck  was  pleased ;  so  pleased  that  she  yielded  to 
the  pressure  and  conceded  a  sum  which  her  judg- 
ment told  her  was  a  foolish  extravagance — a  thousand 
dollars.  Sally  kissed  her  half  a  dozen  times  and  even 
in  that  way  could  not  express  all  his  joy  and  thank- 
fulness. This  new  access  of  gratitude  and  affection 
carried  Aleck  quite  beyond  the  bounds  of  prudence, 
and  before  she  could  restrain  herself  she  had  made 
her  darling  another  grant — a  couple  of  thousand  out 
of  the  fifty  or  sixty  which  she  meant  to  clear  within 
a  year  out  of  the  twenty  which  still  remained  of  the 
bequest.  The  happy  tears  sprang  to  Sally's  eyes, 
and  he  said: 

"Oh,  I  want  to  hug  you!"  And  he  did  it.  Then 
he  got  his  notes  and  sat  down  and  began  to  check  off, 
for  first  purchase,  the  luxuries  which  he  should 
earliest  wish  to  secure.  "Horse — buggy — cutter — 
lap-robe — patent-leathers — dog — plug-hat — church- 
pew-^-stem- winder — new  teeth — say,  Aleck!" 

"Well?" 

4 '  Ciphering  away,  aren't  you  ?  That 's  right.  Have 
you  got  the  twenty  thousand  invested  yet?" 

"No,  there's  no  hurry  about  that;  I  must  look 
around  first,  and  think." 

"But  you  are  ciphering;   what's  it  about?" 

"Why,  I  have  to  find  work  for  the  thirty  thousand 
that  comes  out  of  the  coal,  haven't  I?" 

"Scott,  what  a  head!  I  never  thought  of  that. 
How  are  you  getting  along?  Where  have  you  ar- 
rived?" 

9 


MARK    TWAIN 

"Not  very  far — two  years  or  three.  I've  turned  it 
over  twice;  once  in  oil  and  once  in  wheat." 

"Why,  Aleck,  it's  splendid!  How  does  it  aggrev 
gate?" 

"I  think — well,  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  about  a  hun- 
dred and  eighty  thousand  clear,  though  it  will 
probably  be  more." 

"My!  isn't  it  wonderful?  By  gracious!  luck  has 
come  our  way  at  last,  after  all  the  hard  sledding. 
Aleck!" 

"Well?" 

"I'm  going  to  cash  in  a  whole  three  hundred  on  the 
missionaries — what  real  right  have  we  to  care  for 
expenses!" 

"You  couldn't  do  a  nobler  thing,  dear;  and  it's 
just  like  your  generous  nature,  you  unselfish  boy." 

The  praise  made  Sally  poignantly  happy,  but  he 
was  fair  and  just  enough  to  say  it  was  rightfully  due 
to  Aleck  rather  than  to  himself,  since  but  for  her  he 
should  never  have  had  the  money. 

Then  they  went  up  to  bed,  and  in  their  delirium  of 
bliss  they  forgot  and  left  the  candle  burning  in  the 
parlor.  They  did  not  remember  until  they  were  un- 
dressed; then  Sally  was  for  letting  it  burn;  he  said 
they  could  afford  it,  if  it  was  a  thousand.  But  Aleck 
went  down  and  put  it  out. 

A  good  job,  too;  for  on  her  way  back  she  hit  on  a 
scheme  that  would  turn  the  hundred  and  eighty 
thousand  into  half  a  million  before  it  had  had  time 
to  get  cold. 


10 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  little  newspaper  which  Aleck  had  subscribed 
for  was  a  Thursday  sheet;  it  would  make  the 
trip  of  five  hundred  miles  from  Tilbury's  village  and 
arrive  on  Saturday.  Tilbury's  letter  had  started  on 
Friday,  more  than  a  day  too  late  for  the  benefactor 
to  die  and  get  into  that  week's  issue,  but  in  plenty 
of  time  to  make  connection  for  the  next  output. 
Thus  the  Fosters  had  to  wait  almost  a  complete 
week  to  find  out  whether  anything  of  a  satisfactory 
nature  had  happened  to  him  or  not.  It  was  a  long, 
long  week,  and  the  strain  was  a  heavy  one.  The 
pair  could  hardly  have  borne  it  if  their  minds  had 
not  had  the  relief  of  wholesome  diversion.  We  have 
seen  that  they  had  that.  The  woman  was  piling  up 
fortunes  right  along,  the  man  was  spending  them — 
spending  all  his  wife  would  give  him  a  chance  at,  at 
any  rate. 

At  last  the  Saturday  came,  and  the  Weekly  Saga- 
wore  arrived.  Mrs.  Eversly  Bennett  was  present. 
She  was  the  Presbyterian  parson's  wife,  and  was 
working  the  Fosters  for  a  charity.  Talk  now  died 
a  sudden  death — on  the  Foster  side.  Mrs.  Bennett 
presently  discovered  that  her  hosts  were  not  hearing 
a  word  she  was  saying;  so  she  got  up,  wondering  and 
indignant,  and  went  away.  The  moment  she  was 
ii 


MARK    TWAIN 

out  of  the  house,  Aleck  eagerly  tore  the  wrapper 
from  the  paper,  and  her  eyes  and  Sally's  swept  the 
columns  for  the  death  -  notices.  Disappointment! 
Tilbury  was  not  anywhere  mentioned.  Aleck  was  a 
Christian  from  the  cradle,  and  duty  and  the  force 
of  habit  required  her  to  go  through  the  motions. 
She  pulled  herself  together  and  said,  with  a  pious 
two-per-cent.  trade  joyousness: 

"Let  us  be  humbly  thankful  that  he  has  been 
spared;  and — 

"Damn  his  treacherous  hide,  I  wish — 

"Sally!    For  shame!" 

"I  don't  care!"  retorted  the  angry  man.  "It's  the 
way  you  feel,  and  if  you  weren't  so  immorally  pious 
you'd  be  honest  and  say  so." 

Aleck  said,  with  wounded  dignity: 

"I  do  not  see  how  you  can  say  such  unkind  and 
unjust  things.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  immoral 
piety." 

Sally  felt  a  pang,  but  tried  to  conceal  it  under  a 
shuffling  attempt  to  save  his  case  by  changing  the 
form  of  it — as  if  changing  the  form  while  retaining 
the  juice  could  deceive  the  expert  he  was  trying  to 
placate.  He  said: 

"I  didn't  mean  so  bad  as  that,  Aleck;  I  didn't 
really  mean  immoral  piety,  I  only  meant — meant — 
well,  conventional  piety,  you  know;  er — shop  piety; 
the — the — why,  you  know  what  I  mean.  Aleck — the 
— well,  where  you  put  up  the  plated  article  and  play 
it  for  solid,  you  know,  without  intending  anything 
improper,  but  just  out  of  trade  habit,  ancient  policy, 
petrified  custom,  loyalty  to — to — hang  it,  I  can't 
12 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

find  the  right  words,  but  you  know  what  I  mean, 
Aleck,  and  that  there  isn't  any  harm  in  it.  1*11  try 
again.  You  see,  it's  this  way.  If  a  person — " 

"You  have  said  quite  enough,"  said  Aleck,  coldly; 
let  the  subject  be  dropped." 

"/'m  willing,"  fervently  responded  Sally,  wiping 
the  sweat  from  his  forehead  and  looking  the  thank- 
fulness he  had  no  words  for.  Then,  musingly,  he 
apologized  to  himself.  "I  certainly  held  threes — 
I  know  it — but  I  drew  and  didn't  fill.  That's  where 
I'm  so  often  weak  in  the  game.  If  I  had  stood 
pat  —  but  I  didn't.  I  never  do.  I  don't  know 
enough." 

Confessedly  defeated,  he  was  properly  tame  now 
and  subdued.  Aleck  forgave  him  with  her  eyes. 

The  grand  interest,  the  supreme  interest,  came 
instantly  to  the  front  again;  nothing  could  keep  it 
in  the  background  many  minutes  on  a  stretch.  The 
couple  took  up  the  puzzle  of  the  absence  of  Tilbury's 
death-notice.  They  discussed  it  every  which  way, 
more  or  less  hopefully,  but  they  had  to  finish  where 
they  began,  and  concede  that  the  only  really  sane 
explanation  of  the  absence  of  the  notice  must  be — 
and  without  doubt  was — that  Tilbury  was  not  dead. 
There  was  something  sad  about  it,  something  even  a 
little  unfair,  maybe,  but  there  it  was,  and  had  to  be 
put  up  with.  They  were  agreed  as  to  that.  To 
Sally  it  seemed  a  strangely  inscrutable  dispensation; 
more  inscrutable  than  usual,  he  thought;  one  of  the 
most  unnecessarily  inscrutable  he  could  call  to  mind, 
in  fact — and  said  so,  with  some  feeling;  but  if  he  was 
hoping  to  draw  Aleck  he  failed;  she  reserved  her 
13 


MARK    TWAIN 

opinion,  if  she  had  one;  she  had  not  the  habit  of 
taking  injudicious  risks  in  any  market,  worldly  or 
other. 

The  pair  must  wait  for  next  week's  paper — Tilbury 
had  evidently  postponed.  That  was  their  thought 
and  their  decision.  So  they  put  the  subject  away, 
and  went  about  their  affairs  again  with  as  good  heart 
as  they  could. 

Now,  if  they  had  but  known  it,  they  had  been 
wronging  Tilbury  all  the  time.  Tilbury  had  kept 
faith,  kept  it  to  the  letter;  he  was  dead,  he  had  died 
to  schedule.  He  was  dead  more  than  four  days  now 
and  used  to  it;  entirely  dead,  perfectly  dead,  as  dead 
as  any  other  new  person  in  the  cemetery;  dead  in 
abundant  time  to  get  into  that  week's  Sagamore,  too, 
and  only  shut  out  by  an  accident ;  an  accident  which 
could  not  happen  to  a  metropolitan  journal,  but 
which  happens  easily  to  a  poor  little  village  rag  like 
the  Sagamore.  On  this  occasion,  just  as  the  editorial 
page  was  being  locked  up,  a  gratis  quart  of  straw- 
berry water-ice  arrived  from  Hostetter's  Ladies' 
and  Gents'  Ice-Cream  Parlors,  and  the  stickful  of 
rather  chilly  regret  over  Tilbury's  translation  got 
crowded  out  to  make  room  for  the  editor's  frantic 
gratitude. 

On  its  way  to  the  standing-galley  Tilbury's  notice 
got  pied.  Otherwise  it  would  have  gone  into  some 
future  edition,  for  Weekly  Sagamores  do  not  waste 
"live"  matter,  and  in  their  galleys  "live"  matter  is 
immortal,  unless  a  pi  accident  intervenes.  But  a 
thing  that  gets  pied  is  dead,  and  for  such  there  is  no 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

resurrection;  its  chance  of  seeing  print  is  gone,  for- 
ever and  ever.  And  so,  let  Tilbury  like  it  or  not,  let 
him  rave  in  his  grave  to  his  fill,  no  matter — no 
mention  of  his  death  would  ever  see  the  light  in  the 
Weekly  Sagamore. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FIVE  weeks  drifted  tediously  along.  The  Saga- 
more arrived  regularly  on  the  Saturdays,  but 
never  once  contained  a  mention  of  Tilbury  Foster. 
Sally's  patience  broke  down  at  this  point,  and  he 
said,  resentfully: 

"Damn  his  livers,  he's  immortal!" 

Aleck  gave  him  a  very  severe  rebuke,  and  added, 
with  icy  solemnity: 

"How  would  you  feel  if  you  were  suddenly  cut  off 
just  after  such  an  awful  remark  had  escaped  out  of 
you?" 

Without  sufficient  reflection  Sally  responded: 

"I'd  feel  I  was  lucky  I  hadn't  got  caught  with  it 
in  me." 

Pride  had  forced  him  to  say  something,  and  as  he 
could  not  think  of  any  rational  thing  to  say  he  flung 
that  out.  Then  he  stole  a  base — as  he  called  it — 
that  is,  slipped  from  the  presence,  to  keep  from 
getting  brayed  in  his  wife's  discussion-mortar. 

Six  months  came  and  went.  The  Sagamore  was 
still  silent  about  Tilbury.  Meantime,  Sally  had  sev- 
eral times  thrown  out  a  feeler — that  is,  a  hint  that 
he  would  like  to  know.  Aleck  had  ignored  the  hints. 
Sally  now  resolved  to  brace  up  and  risk  a  frontal 
attack.  So  he  squarely  proposed  to  disguise  himself 
16 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

and  go  to  Tilbury's  village  and  surreptitiously  find 
out  as  to  the  prospects.  Aleck  put  her  foot  on  the 
dangerous  project  with  energy  and  decision.  She 
said: 

"What  can  you  be  thinking  of?  You  do  keep  my 
hands  full!  You  have  to  be  watched  all  the  time, 
like  a  little  child,  to  keep  you  from  walking  into  the 
fire.  You'll  stay  right  where  you  are!" 

"Why,  Aleck,  I  could  do  it  and  not  be  found  out — 
I'm  certain  of  it." 

"Sally  Foster,  don't  you  know  you  would  have  to 
inquire  around?" 

"Of  course,  but  what  of  it?  Nobody  would  sus- 
pect who  I  was." 

"Oh,  listen  to  the  man!  Some  day  you've  got  to 
prove  to  the  executors  that  you  never  inquired. 
What  then?" 

He  had  forgotten  that  detail.  He  didn't  reply; 
there  wasn't  anything  to  say.  Aleck  added: 

"Now  then,  drop  that  notion  out  of  your  mind, 
and  don't  ever  meddle  with  it  again.  Tilbury  set 
that  trap  for  you.  Don't  you  know  it's  a  trap  ?  He 
is  on  the  watch,  and  fully  expecting  you  to  blunder 
into  it.  Well,  he  is  going  to  be  disappointed — at 
least  while  I  am  on  deck.  Sally!" 

"Well?" 

"As  long  as  you  live,  if  it's  a  hundred  years,  don't 
you  ever  make  an  inquiry.  Promise!" 

"All  right,"  with  a  sigh  and  reluctantly. 

Then  Aleck  softened  and  said: 

"Don't  be  impatient.  We  are  prospering;  we 
can  wait ;  there  is  no  hurry.  Our  small  dead-certain 
17 


MARK    TWAIN 

income  increases  all  the  time;  and  as  to  futures,  I 
have  not  made  a  mistake  yet— they  are  piling  up  by 
the  thousands  and  the  tens  of  thousands.  There  is 
not  another  family  in  the  state  with  such  prospects 
as  ours.  Already  we  are  beginning  to  roll  in  event- 
ual wealth.  You  know  that,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  Aleck,  it's  certainly  so." 

"Then  be  grateful  for  what  God  is  doing  for  us, 
and  stop  worrying.  You  do  not  believe  we  could 
have  achieved  these  prodigious  results  without  His 
special  help  and  guidance,  do  you?" 

Hesitatingly,  "N-no,  I  suppose  not."  Then,  with 
feeling  and  admiration,  "And  yet,  when  it  comes  to 
judiciousness  in  watering  a  stock  or  putting  up  a 
hand  to  skin  Wall  Street  I  don't  give  in  that  you 
need  any  outside  amateur  help,  if  I  do  wish  I — " 

"Oh,  do  shut  up!  I  know  you  do  not  mean  any 
harm  or  any  irreverence,  poor  boy,  but  you  can't 
seem  to  open  your  mouth  without  letting  out  things 
to  make  a  person  shudder.  You  keep  me  in  constant 
dread.  For  you  and  for  all  of  us.  Once  I  had  no 
fear  of  the  thunder,  but  now  when  I  hear  it  I — " 

Her  voice  broke,  and  she  began  to  cry,  and  could 
not  finish.  The  sight  of  this  smote  Sally  to  the  heart, 
and  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  petted  her  and  com- 
forted her  and  promised  better  conduct,  and  up- 
braided himself  and  remorsefully  pleaded  for  for- 
giveness. And  he  was  in  earnest,  and  sorry  for  what 
he  had  done  and  ready  for  any  sacrifice  that  could 
make  up  for  it. 

And  so,  in  privacy,  he  thought  long  and  deeply 
over  the  matter,  resolving  to  do  what  should  seem 
18 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

best.  It  was  easy  to  promise  reform;  indeed  he  had 
already  promised  it.  But  would  that  do  any  real 
good,  any  permanent  good?  No,  it  would  be  but 
temporary — ke  knew  his  weakness,  and  confessed  it 
to  himself  with  sorrow — he  could  not  keep  the  prom- 
ise. Something  surer  and  better  must  be  devised; 
and  he  devised  it.  At  cost  of  precious  money  which 
he  had  long  been  saving  up,  shilling  by  shilling,  he 
put  a  lightning-rod  on  the  house. 

At  a  subsequent  time  he  relapsed. 

What  miracles  habit  can  do!  and  how  quickly  and 
how  easily  habits  are  acquired — both  trifling  habits 
and  habits  which  profoundly  change  us.  If  by  acci- 
dent we  wake  at  two  in  the  morning  a  couple  of 
nights  in  succession,  we  have  need  to  be  uneasy,  for 
another  repetition  can  turn  the  accident  into  a  habit; 
and  a  month's  dallying  with  whisky — but  we  all 
know  these  commonplace  facts. 

The  castle-building  habit,  the  day-dreaming  habit 
— how  it  grows !  what  a  luxury  it  becomes ;  how  we 
fly  to  its  enchantments  at  every  idle  moment,  how 
we  revel  in  them,  steep  our  souls  in  them,  intoxicate 
ourselves  with  their  beguiling  fantasies — oh  yes,  and 
how  soon  and  how  easily  our  dream  life  and  our 
material  life  become  so  intermingled  and  so  fused 
together  that  we  can't  quite  tell  which  is  which,  any 
more. 

By  and  by  Aleck  subscribed  for  a  Chicago  daily 
and  for  the  Wall  Street  Pointer.  With  an  eye  single 
to  finance  she  studied  these  as  diligently  all  the 
week  as  she  studied  her  Bible  Sundays.  Sally  was 
lost  in  admiration,  to  note  with  what  swift  and  sure 
19 


MARK    TWAIN 

strides  her  genius  and  judgment  developed  and  ex- 
panded in  the  forecasting  and  handling  of  the  securi- 
ties of  both  the  material  and  spiritual  markets.  He 
was  proud  of  her  nerve  and  daring  in  exploiting 
worldly  stocks,  and  just  as  proud  of  her  conservative 
caution  in  working  her  spiritual  deals.  He  noted 
that  she  never  lost  her  head  in  either  case;  that  with 
a  splendid  courage  she  often  went  short  on  worldly 
futures,  but  heedfully  drew  the  line  there — she  was 
always  long  on  the  others.  Her  policy  was  quite 
sane  and  simple,  as  she  explained  it  to  him :  what  she 
put  into  earthly  futures  was  for  speculation,  what  she 
put  into  spiritual  futures  was  for  investment;  she 
was  willing  to  go  into  the  one  on  a  margin,  and  take 
chances,  but  in  the  case  of  the  other,  "margin  her 
no  margins" — she  wanted  to  cash  in  a  hundred  cents 
per  dollar's  worth,  and  have  the  stock  transferred  on 
the  books. 

It  took  but  a  very  few  months  to  educate  Aleck's 
imagination  and  Sally's.  Each  day's  training  added 
something  to  the  spread  and  effectiveness  of  the 
two  machines.  As  a  consequence,  Aleck  made  im- 
aginary money  much  faster  than  at  first  she  had 
dreamed  of  making  it,  and  Sally's  competency  in 
spending  the  overflow  of  it  kept  pace  with  the  strain 
put  upon  it,  right  along.  In  the  beginning,  Aleck 
had  given  the  coal  speculation  a  twelvemonth  in 
which  to  materialize,  and  had  been  loath  to  grant 
that  this  term  might  possibly  be  shortened  by  nine 
months.  But  that  was  the  feeble  work,  the  nursery 
work,  of  a  financial  fancy  that  had  had  no  teaching, 
no  experience,  no  practice.  These  aids  soon  came, 

20 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

then  that  nine  months  vanished,  and  the  imaginary 
ten-thousand-dollar  investment  came  marching  home 
with  three  hundred  per  cent,  profit  on  its  back! 

It  was  a  great  day  for  the  pair  of  Fosters.  They 
were  speechless  for  joy.  Also  speechless  for  another 
reason:  after  much  watching  of  the  market,  Aleck 
had  lately,  with  fear  and  trembling,  made  her  first 
flyer  on  a  "margin,"  using  the  remaining  twenty 
thousand  of  the  bequest  in  this  risk.  In  her  mind's 
eye  she  had  seen  it  climb,  point  by  point — always 
with  a  chance  that  the  market  would  break — until 
at  last  her  anxieties  were  too  great  for  further  en- 
durance— she  being  new  to  the  margin  business  and 
unhardened,  as  yet — and  she  gave  her  imaginary 
broker  an  imaginary  order  by  imaginary  telegraph 
to  sell.  She  said  forty  thousand  dollars'  profit  was 
enough.  The  sale  was  made  on  the  very  day  that 
the  coal  venture  had  returned  with  its  rich  freight. 
As  I  have  said,  the  couple  were  speechless.  They  sat 
dazed  and  blissful  that  night,  trying  to  realize  the 
immense  fact,  the  overwhelming  fact,  that  they  were 
actually  worth  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  clean, 
imaginary  cash.  Yet  so  it  was. 

It  was  the  last  time  that  ever  Aleck  was  afraid  of 
a  margin;  at  least  afraid  enough  to  let  it  break  her 
sleep  and  pale  her  cheek  to  the  extent  that  this  first 
experience  in  that  line  had  done. 

Indeed  it  was  a  memorable  night.  Gradually  the 
realization  that  they  were  rich  sank  securely  home 
into  the  souls  of  the  pair,  then  they  began  to  place 
the  money.  If  we  could  have  looked  out  through 
the  eyes  of  these  dreamers,  we  should  have  seen 

21 


MARK    TWAIN 

their  tidy  little  wooden  house  disappear,  and  a  two- 
story  brick  with  a  cast-iron  fence  in  front  of  it  take 
its  place;  we  should  have  seen  a  three-globed  gas- 
chandelier  grow  down  from  the  parlor  ceiling;  we 
should  have  seen  the  homely  rag  carpet  turn  to 
noble  Brussels,  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  yard;  we  should 
have  seen  the  plebeian  fireplace  vanish  away  and  a 
recherche,  big  base-burner  with  isinglass  windows 
take  position  and  spread  awe  around.  And  we 
should  have  seen  other  things,  too;  among  them  the 
buggy,  the  lap-robe,  the  stove-pipe  hat,  and  so  on. 

From  that  time  forth,  although  the  daughters  and 
the  neighbors  saw  only  the  same  old  wooden  house 
there,  it  was  a  two-story  brick  to  Aleck  and  Sally; 
and  not  a  night  went  by  that  Aleck  did  not  worry 
about  the  imaginary  gas-bills,  and  get  for  all  comfort 
Sally's  reckless  retort : ' '  What  of  it  ?  We  can  afford  it." 

Before  the  couple  went  to  bed,  that  first  night  that 
they  were  rich,  they  had  decided  that  they  must 
celebrate.  They  must  give  a  party — that  was  the 
idea.  But  how  to  explain  it — to  the  daughters  and 
the  neighbors?  They  could  not  expose  the  fact  that 
they  were  rich.  Sally  was  willing,  even  anxious,  to 
do  it ;  but  Aleck  kept  her  head  and  would  not  allow 
it.  She  said  that  although  the  money  was  as  good 
as  in,  it  would  be  as  well  to  wait  until  it  was  actually 
in.  On  that  policy  she  took  her  stand,  and  would 
not  budge.  The  great  secret  must  be  kept,  she  said 
— kept  from  the  daughters  and  everybody  else. 

The  pair  were  puzzled.  They  must  celebrate,  they 
were  determined  to  celebrate,  but  since  the  secret 
must  be  kept,  what  could  they  celebrate?  No  birth- 
22 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

days  were  due  for  three  months.  Tilbury  wasn't' 
available,  evidently  he  was  going  to  live  forever; 
what  the  nation  could  they  celebrate?  That  was 
Sally's  way  of  putting  it;  and  he  was  getting  impa- 
tient, too,  and  harassed.  But  at  last  he  hit  it — just 
by  sheer  inspiration,  as  it  seemed  to  him — and  all 
their  troubles  were  gone  in  a  moment;  they  would 
celebrate  the  Discovery  of  America.  A  splendid 
idea! 

Aleck  was  almost  too  proud  of  Sally  for  words — 
she  said  she  never  would  have  thought  of  it.  But/ 
Sally,  although  he  was  bursting  with  delight  in  the 
compliment  and  with  wonder  at  himself,  tried  not  to 
let  on,  and  said  it  wasn't  really  anything,  anybody 
could  have  done  it.  Whereat  Aleck,  with  a  prideful 
toss  of  her  happy  head,  said: 

"Oh,  certainly!  Anybody  could — oh,  anybody! 
Hosannah  Dilkins,  for  instance !  Or  maybe  Adelbert 
Peanut— oh,  dear— yes!  Well,  I'd  like  to  see  them 
try  it,  that's  all.  Dear-me-suz,  if  they  could  think 
of  the  discovery  of  a  forty-acre  island  it's  more  than 
/  believe  they  could;  and  as  for  a  whole  continent, 
why,  Sally  Foster,  you  know  perfectly  well  it  would 
strain  the  livers  and  lights  out  of  them  and  then  they 
couldn't!" 

The  dear  woman,  she  knew  he  had  talent;  and  if 
affection  made  her  over-estimate  the  size  of  it  a  little, 
surely  it  was  a  sweet  and  gentle  crime,  and  forgive- 
able  for  its  source's  sake. 


CHAPTER    V 

THE  celebration  went  off  well.  The  friends  were 
all  present,  both  the  young  and  the  old.  Among 
the  young  were  Flossie  and  Grade  Peanut  and  their 
brother  Adelbert,  who  was  a  rising  young  journeyman 
tinner,  also  Hosannah  Dilkins,  Jr.,  journeyman  plas- 
terer, just  out  of  his  apprenticeship.  For  many 
months  Adelbert  and  Hosannah  had  been  showing 
interest  in  Gwendolen  and  Clytemnestra  Foster,  and 
the  parents  of  the  girls  had  noticed  this  with  private 
satisfaction.  But  they  suddenly  realized  now  that 
that  feeling  had  passed.  They  recognized  that  the 
changed  financial  conditions  had  raised  up  a  social 
bar  between  their  daughters  and  the  young  mechan- 
ics. The  daughters  could  now  look  higher — and 
must.  Yes,  must.  They  need  marry  nothing  below 
the  grade  of  lawyer  or  merchant ;  poppa  and  momma 
would  take  care  of  this;  there  must  be  no  mesalli- 
ances. 

However,  these  thinkings  and  projects  of  theirs 
were  private,  and  did  not  show  on  the  surface,  and 
therefore  threw  no  shadow  upon  the  celebration. 
What  showed  upon  the  surface  was  a  serene  and  lofty 
contentment  and  a  dignity  of  carriage  and  gravity  of 
deportment  which  compelled  the  admiration  and 
likewise  the  wonder  of  the  company.  All  noticed  it, 
24 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

all  commented  upon  it,  but  none  was  able  to  divine 
the  secret  of  it.  It  was  a  marvel  and  a  mystery. 
Three  several  persons  remarked,  without  suspecting 
what  clever  shots  they  were  making: 

"It's  as  if  they'd  come  into  property." 

That  was  just  it,  indeed. 

Most  mothers  would  have  taken  hold  of  the  matri- 
monial matter  in  the  old  regulation  way;  they  would 
have  given  the  girls  a  talking  to,  of  a  solemn  sort  and 
untactful — a  lecture  calculated  to  defeat  its  own  pur- 
pose, by  producing  tears  and  secret  rebellion;  and 
the  said  mothers  would  have  further  damaged  the 
business  by  requesting  the  young  mechanics  to  dis- 
continue their  attentions.  But  this  mother  was  dif- 
ferent. She  was  practical.  She  said  nothing  to  any 
of  the  young  people  concerned,  nor  to  any  one  else 
except  Sally.  He  listened  to  her  and  understood; 
understood  and  admired.  He  said : 

"I  get  the  idea.  Instead  of  finding  fault  with  the 
samples  on  view,  thus  hurting  feelings  and  obstruct- 
ing trade  without  occasion,  you  merely  offer  a  higher 
class  of  goods  for  the  money,  and  leave  nature  to  take 
her  course.  It's  wisdom,  Aleck,  solid  wisdom,  and 
sound  as  a  nut.  Who's  your  fish?  Have  you  nomi- 
nated him  yet?" 

No,  she  hadn't.  They  must  look  the  market  over 
— which  they  did.  To  start  with,  they  considered 
and  discussed  Bradish,  rising  young  lawyer,  and  Ful- 
ton, rising  young  dentist.  Sally  must  invite  them  to 
dinner.  But  not  right  away;  there  was  no  hurry,  Aleck 
said.  Keep  an  eye  on  the  pair,  and  wait;  nothing 
would  be  lost  by  going  slowly  in  so  important  a  matter. 
25 


MARK    TWAIN 

It  turned  out  that  this  was  wisdom,  too;  for  inside 
of  three  weeks  Aleck  made  a  wonderful  strike  which 
swelled  her  imaginary  hundred  thousand  to  four  hun- 
dred thousand  of  the  same  quality.  She  and  Sally 
were  in  the  clouds  that  evening.  For  the  first  time 
they  introduced  champagne  at  dinner.  Not  real 
champagne,  but  plenty  real  enough  for  the  amount  of 
imagination  expended  on  it.  It  was  Sally  that  did 
it,  and  Aleck  weakly  submitted.  At  bottom  both 
were  troubled  and  ashamed,  for  he  was  a  high-up  Son 
of  Temperance,  and  at  funerals  wore  an  apron  which 
no  dog  could  look  upon  and  retain  his  reason  and  his 
opinion ;  and  she  was  a  W.  C.  T.  U.,  with  all  that  that 
implies  of  boiler-iron  virtue  and  unendurable  holiness. 
But  there  it  was;  the  pride  of  riches  was  beginning 
its  disintegrating  work.  They  had  lived  to  prove, 
once  more,  a  sad  truth  which  had  been  proven  many 
times  before  in  the  world:  that  whereas  principle  is 
a  great  and  noble  protection  against  showy  and  de- 
grading vanities  and  vices,  poverty  is  worth  six  of  it. 
More  than  four  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  the  good ! 
They  took  up  the  matrimonial  matter  again.  Neither 
the  dentist  nor  the  lawyer  was  mentioned;  there  was 
no  occasion,  they  were  out  of  the  running.  Disquali- 
fied. They  discussed  the  son  of  the  pork-packer  and 
the  son  of  the  village  banker.  But  finally,  as  in  the 
previous  case,  they  concluded  to  wait  and  think,  and 
go  cautiously  and  sure. 

Luck  came  their  way  again.    Aleck,  ever  watchful, 

saw  a  great  and  risky  chance,  and  took  a  daring  flyer. 

A  time  of  trembling,  of  doubt,  of  awful  uneasiness 

followed,  for  non-success  meant  absolute  ruin  and 

26 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

nothing  short  of  it.  Then  came  the  result,  and  Aleck/ 
faint  with  joy,  could  hardly  control  her  voice  when 
she  said: 

"The  suspense  is  over,  Sally — and  we  are  worth  a 
cold  million!" 

Sally  wept  for  gratitude,  and  said : 

"Oh,  Electra,  jewel  of  women,  darling  of  my  heart, 
we  are  free  at  last,  we  roll  in  wealth,  we  need  never 
scrimp  again.  It's  a  case  for  Veuve  Cliquot!"  and 
he  got  out  a  pint  of  spruce-beer  and  made  sacrifice, 
he  saying  "Damn  the  expense,"  and  she  rebuking 
him  gently  with  reproachful  but  humid  and  happy 
eyes. 

They  shelved  the  pork-packer's  son  and  the  bank- 
er's son,  and  sat  down  to  consider  the  Governor's  son 
and  the  son  of  the  Congressman. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  were  a  weariness  to  follow  in  detail  the  leaps  and 
bounds  the  Foster  fictitious  finances  took  from  this 
time  forth.  It  was  marvelous,  it  was  dizzying,  it 
was  dazzling.  Everything  Aleck  touched  turned  to 
fairy  gold,  and  heaped  itself  glittering  toward  the 
firmament.  Millions  upon  millions  poured  in,  and 
still  the  mighty  stream  flowed  thundering  along,  still 
its  vast  volume  increased.  Five  millions — ten  mil- 
lions— twenty — thirty — was  there  never  to  be  an 
end? 

Two  years  swept  by  in  a  splendid  delirium,  the 
intoxicated  Fosters  scarcely  noticing  the  flight  of 
time.  They  were  now  worth  three  hundred  million 
dollars;  they  were  in  every  board  of  directors  of 
every  prodigious  combine  in  the  country;  and  still, 
as  time  drifted  along,  the  millions  went  on  piling  up, 
five  at  a  time,  ten  at  a  time,  as  fast  as  they  could 
tally  them  off,  almost.  The  three  hundred  doubled 
itself — then  doubled  again — and  yet  again — and  yet 
once  more. 

Twenty-four  hundred  millions! 

The  business  was  getting  a  little  confused.     It  was 

necessary  to  take  an  account  of  stock,  and  straighten 

it  out.  The  Fosters  knew  it,  they  felt  it,  they  realized 

that  it  was  imperative;  but  they  also  knew  that  to  do 

28 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

it  properly  and  perfectly  the  task  must  be  carried  to 
a  finish  without  a  break  when  once  it  was  begun.  A  / 
ten-hours'  job ;  and  where  could  they  find  ten  leisure 
hours  in  a  bunch?  Sally  was  selling  pins  and  sugar 
and  calico  all  day  and  every  day;  Aleck  was  cooking 
and  washing  dishes  and  sweeping  and  making  beds 
all  day  and  every  day,  with  none  to  help,  for  the 
daughters  were  being  saved  up  for  high  society.  The 
Fosters  knew  there  was  one  way  to  get  the  ten  hours, 
and  only  one.  Both  were  ashamed  to  name  it;  each 
waited  for  the  other  to  do  it.  Finally  Sally  said: 

"Somebody's  got  to  give  in.  It's  up  to  me.  Con- 
sider that  I've  named  it — never  mind  pronouncing  it 
out  aloud." 

Aleck  colored,  but  was  grateful.  Without  further 
remark,  they  fell.  Fell,  and— broke  the  Sabbath. 
For  that  was  their  only  free  ten-hour  stretch.  It  was 
but  another  step  in  the  downward  path.  Others 
would  follow.  Vast  wealth  has  temptations  which 
fatally  and  surely  undermine  the  moral  structure  of 
persons  not  habituated  to  its  possession. 

They  pulled  down  the  shades  and  broke  the  Sab- 
bath. With  hard  and  pateient  labor  they  overhauled 
their  holdings  and  listed  them.  And  a  long-drawn 
procession  of  formidable  names  it  was!  Starting 
with  the  Railway  Systems,  Steamer  Lines,  Standard 
Oil,  Ocean  Cables,  Diluted  Telegraph,  and  all  the 
rest,  and  winding  up  with  Klondike,  De  Beers,  Tam- 
many Graft,  and  Shady  Privileges  in  the  Post-office 
Department. 

Twenty-four  hundred  millions,  and  all  safely  plant- 
ed in  Good  Things,  gilt-edged  and  interest-bearing. 
29 


MARK    TWAIN 

Income,  $120,000,000  a  year.     Aleck  fetched  a  long 
purr  of  soft  delight,  and  said: 

"Is  it  enough?" 

"It  is,  Aleck." 

"What  shall  we  do?" 

"Stand  pat." 

"Retire  from  business?" 

"That's  it." 

"I  am  agreed.  The  good  work  is  finished;  we  will 
take  a  long  rest  and  enjoy  the  money." 

"Good!    Aleck!" 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"How  much  of  the  income  can  we  spend?" 

"The  whole  of  it." 

It  seemed  to  her  husband  that  a  ton  of  chains  fell 
from  his  limbs.  He  did  not  say  a  word;  he  was 
happy  beyond  the  power  of  speech. 

After  that,  they  broke  the  Sabbaths  right  along, 
as  fast  as  they  turned  up.  It  is  the  first  wrong  steps 
that  count.  Every  Sunday  they  put  in  the  whole 
day,  after  morning  service,  on  inventions — inventions 
of  ways  to  spend  the  money.  They  got  to  continu- 
ing this  delicious  dissipation  until  past  midnight; 
and  at  every  seance  Aleck  lavished  millions  upon 
great  charities  and  religious  enterprises,  and  Sally 
lavished  like  sums  upon  matters  to  which  (at  first) 
he  gave  definite  names.  Only  at  first.  Later  the 
names  gradually  lost  sharpness  of  outline,  and 
eventually  faded  into  "sundries,"  thus  becoming 
entirely — but  safely — undescriptive.  For  Sally  was 
crumbling.  The  placing  of  these  millions  added 
seriously  and  most  uncomfortably  to  the  family 
30 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

expenses — in  tallow  candles.  For  a  while  Aleck  was 
worried.  Then,  after  a  little,  she  ceased  to  worry, 
for  the  occasion  of  it  was  gone.  She  was  pained, 
she  was  grieved,  she  was  ashamed;  but  she  said 
nothing,  and  so  became  an  accessory.  Sally  was 
taking  candles;  he  was  robbing  the  store.  It  is  ever 
thus.  Vast  wealth,  to  the  person  unaccustomed  to 
it,  is  a  bane;  it  eats  into  the  flesh  and  bone  of  his 
morals.  When  the  Fosters  were  poor,  they  could 
have  been  trusted  with  untold  candles.  But  now 
they — but  let  us  not  dwell  upon  it.  From  candles  to 
apples  is  but  a  step:  Sally  got  to  taking  apples;  then 
soap;  then  maple-sugar;  then  canned  goods;  then 
crockery.  How  easy  it  is  to  go  from  bad  to  worse, 
when  once  we  have  started  upon  a  downward  course ! 
Meantime,  other  effects  had  been  milestoning  the 
course  of  the  Fosters'  splendid  financial  march.  The 
fictitious  brick  dwelling  had  given  place  to  an  imagi- 
nary granite  one  with  a  checker-board  mansard  roof; 
in  time  this  one  disappeared  and  gave  place  to  a  still 
grander  home — and  so  on  and  so  on.  Mansion  after 
mansion,  made  of  air,  rose,  higher,  broader,  finer, 
and  each  in  its  turn  vanished  away;  until  now  in 
these  latter  great  days,  our  dreamers  were  in  fancy 
housed,  in  a  distant  region,  in  a  sumptuous  vast 
palace  which  looked  out  from  a  leafy  summit  upon 
a  noble  prospect  of  vale  and  river  and  receding  hills 
steeped  in  tinted  mists — and  all  private,  all  the  prop- 
erty of  the  dreamers;  a  palace  swarming  with  liveried 
servants,  and  populous  with  guests  of  fame  and 
power,  hailing  from  all  the  world's  capitals,  foreign 
and  domestic. 


MARK     TWAIN 

This  palace  was  far,  far  away  toward  the  rising 
sun,  immeasurably  remote,  astronomically  remote, 
in  Newport,  Rhode  Island,  Holy  Land  of  High  So- 
ciety, ineffable  Domain  of  the  American  Aristocracy. 
As  a  rule  they  spent  a  part  of  every  Sabbath— after 
morning  service — in  this  sumptuous  home,  the  rest 
of  it  they  spent  in  Europe,  or  in  dawdling  around  in 
their  private  yacht.  Six  days  of  sordid  and  plodding 
fact  life  at  home  on  the  ragged  edge  of  Lakeside  and 
straitened  means,  the  seventh  in  Fairlyand — such 
had  become  their  program  and  their  habit. 

In  their  sternly  restricted  fact  life  they  remained 
as  of  old  —  plodding,  diligent,  careful,  practical, 
economical.  They  stuck  loyally  to  the  little  Presby- 
terian Church,  and  labored  faithfully  in  its  interests 
and  stood  by  its  high  and  tough  doctrines  with  all 
their  mental  and  spiritual  energies.  But  in  their 
dream  life  they  obeyed  the  invitations  of  their  fan- 
cies, whatever  they  might  be,  and  howsoever  the 
fancies  might  change.  Aleck's  fancies  were  not  very 
capricious,  and  not  frequent,  but  Sally's  scattered  a 
good  deal.  Aleck,  in  her  dream  life,  went  over  to 
the  Episcopal  camp,  on  account  of  its  large  official 
titles;  next  she  became  High-church  on  account  of 
the  candles  and  shows;  and  next  she  naturally 
changed  to  Rome,  where  there  were  cardinals  and 
more  candles.  But  these  excursions  were  a  nothing 
to  Sally's.  His  dream  life  was  a  glowing  and  con- 
tinuous and  persistent  excitement,  and  he  kept  every 
part  of  it  fresh  and  sparkling  by  frequent  changes, 
the  religious  part  along  with  the  rest.  He  worked 
his  religions  hard,  and  changed  them  with  his  shirt.! 
32 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

The  liberal  spendings  of  the  Fosters  upon  their 
fancies  began  early  in  their  prosperities,  and  grew  in 
prodigality  step  by  step  with  their  advancing  for- 
tunes. In  time  they  became  truly  enormous.  Aleck 
built  a  university  or  two  per  Sunday;  also  a  hospital 
or  two;  also  a  Rowton  hotel  or  so;  also  a  batch  of 
churches;  now  and  then  a  cathedral;  and  once,  with 
untimely  and  ill-chosen  playfulness,  Sally  said,  "It 
was  a  cold  day  when  she  didn't  ship  a  cargo  of  mis- 
sionaries to  persuade  unreflecting  Chinamen  to  trade 
off  twenty-four  carat  Confucianism  for  counterfeit 
Christianity." 

This  rude  and  unfeeling  language  hurt  Aleck  to 
the  heart,  and  she  went  from  the  presence  crying. 
That  spectacle  went  to  his  own  heart,  and  in  his 
pain  and  shame  he  would  have  given  worlds  to 
have  those  unkind  words  back.  She  had  uttered  no 
syllable  of  reproach — and  that  cut  him.  Not  one 
suggestion  that  he  look  at  his  own  record — and  she 
could  have  made,  oh,  so  many,  and  such  blistering 
ones !  Her  generous  silence  brought  a  swift  revenge, 
for  it  turned  his  thoughts  upon  himself,  it  summoned 
before  him  a  spectral  procession,  a  moving  vision  of 
his  life  as  he  had  been  leading  it  these  past  few  years 
of  limitless  prosperity,  and  as  he  sat  there  reviewing 
it  his  cheeks  burned  and  his  soul  was  steeped  in 
humiliation.  Look  at  her  life — how  fair  it  was,  and 
tending  ever  upward;  and  look  at  his  own — how 
frivolous,  how  charged  with  mean  vanities,  how 
selfish,  how  empty,  how  ignoble!  And  its  trend — 
never  upward,  but  downward,  ever  downward! 

He  instituted  comparisons  between  her  record  and 
33 


MARK    TWAIN 

his  own.  He  had  found  fault  with  her — so  he  mused 
— he!  And  what  could  he  say  for  himself?  When 
she  built  her  first  church  what  was  he  doing?  Gath- 
ering other  blase  multimillionaires  into  a  Poker 
Club;  defiling  his  own  palace  with  it;  losing  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  to  it  at  every  sitting,  and  sillily 
vain  of  the  admiring  notoriety  it  made  for  him. 
When  she  was  building  her  first  university,  what  was 
he  doing?  Polluting  himself  with  a  gay  and  dissi- 
pated secret  life  in  the  company  of  other  fast  bloods, 
multimillionaires  in  money  and  paupers  in  character. 
When  she  was  building  her  first  foundling  asylum, 
what  was  he  doing?  Alas!  When  she  was  projecting 
her  noble  Society  for  the  Purifying  of  the  Sex,  what 
was  he  doing?  Ah,  what,  indeed!  When  she  and 
the  W.  C.  T.  U.  and  the  Woman  with  the  Hatchet, 
moving  with  resistless  march,  were  sweeping  the 
fatal  bottle  from  the  land,  what  was  he  doing? 
Getting  drunk  three  times  a  day.  When  she,  builder 
of  a  hundred  cathedrals,  was  being  gratefully  wel- 
comed and  blest  in  papal  Rome  and  decorated  with 
the  Golden  Rose  which  she  had  so  honorably  earned, 
what  was  he  doing?  Breaking  the  bank  at  Monte 
Carlo. 

He  stopped.  He  could  go  no  farther;  he  could  not 
bear  the  rest.  He  rose  up,  with  a  great  resolution 
upon  his  lips :  this  secret  lif  e  should  be  revealed,  and 
confessed;  no  longer  would  he  live  it  clandestinely; 
he  would  go  and  tell  her  All. 

And  that  is  what  he  did.  He  told  her  All;  and 
wept  upon  her  bosom;  wept,  and  moaned,  and 
begged  for  her  forgiveness.  It  was  a  profound 
34 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

shock,  and  she  staggered  under  tne  blow,  but  he  was 
her  own,  the  core  of  her  heart,  the  blessing  of  her 
eyes,  her  all  in  all,  she  could  deny  him  nothing,  and 
she  forgave  him.  She  felt  that  he  could  never  again 
be  quite  to  her  what  he  had  been  before;  she  knew 
that  he  could  only  repent,  and  not  reform;  yet  all 
morally  defaced  and  decayed  as  he  was,  was  he  not 
her  own,  her  very  own,  the  idol  of  her  deathless 
worship?  She  said  she  was  his  serf,  his  slave,  and 
she  opened  her  yearning  heart  and  took  him  in. 


CHAPTER    VII 

ONE  Sunday  afternoon  some  time  after  this  they 
were  sailing  the  summer  seas  in  their  dream 
yacht,  and  reclining  in  lazy  luxury  under  the  awning 
of  the  after-deck.  There  was  silence,  for  each  was 
busy  with  his  own  thoughts.  These  seasons  of  silence 
had  insensibly  been  growing  more  and  more  frequent 
of  late;  the  old  nearness  and  cordiality  were  waning. 
Sally's  terrible  revelation  had  done  its  work;  Aleck 
had  tried  hard  to  drive  the  memory  of  it  out  of  her 
mind,  but  it  would  not  go,  and  the  shame  and  bit- 
terness of  it  were  poisoning  her  gracious  dream  life. 
She  could  see  now  (on  Sundays)  that  her  husband  was 
becoming  a  bloated  and  repulsive  Thing.  She  could 
not  close  her  eyes  to  this,  and  in  these  days  she  no 
longer  looked  at  him,  Sundays,  when  she  could 
help  it. 

But  she — was  she  herself  without  blemish?  Alas, 
she  knew  she  was  not.  She  was  keeping  a  secret 
from  him,  she  was  acting  dishonorably  toward  him, 
and  many  a  pang  it  was  costing  her.  She  was  break- 
ing the  compact,  and  concealing  it  from  him.  Under 
strong  temptation  she  had  gone  into  business  again; 
she  had  risked  their  whole  fortune  in  a  purchase  of 
all  the  railway  systems  and  coal  and  steel  companies 
in  the  country  on  a  margin,  and  she  was  now  trem- 
36 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

bling,  every  Sabbath  hour,  lest  through  some  chance 
word  of  hers  he  find  it  out.  In  her  misery  and 
remorse  for  this  treachery  she  could  not  keep  her 
heart  from  going  out  to  him  in  pity;  she  was  filled 
with  compunctions  to  see  him  lying  there,  drunk  and 
content,  and  never  suspecting.  Never  suspecting  — 
trusting  her  with  a  perfect  and  pathetic  trust,  and 
she  holding  over  him  by  a  thread  a  possible  calamity 
of  so  devastating  a  — 


The  interrupting  words  brought  her  suddenly  to 
herself.  She  was  grateful  to  have  that  persecuting 
subject  from  her  thoughts,  and  she  answered,  with 
much  of  the  old-time  tenderness  in  her  tone: 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Do  you  know,  Aleck,  I  think  we  are  making  a 
mistake  —  that  is,  you  are.  I  mean  about  the  mar- 
riage business."  He  sat  up,  fat  and  froggy  and 
benevolent,  like  a  bronze  Buddha,  and  grew  earnest. 
"Consider  —  it's  more  than  five  years.  You've  con- 
tinued the  same  policy  from  the  start:  with  every 
rise,  always  holding  on  for  five  points  higher.  Al- 
ways when  I  think  we  are  going  to  have  some  wed- 
dings, you  see  a  bigger  thing  ahead,  and  I  undergo 
another  disappointment.  /  think  you  are  too  hard 
to  please.  Some  day  we'll  get  left.  First,  we  turned 
down  the  dentist  and  the  lawyer.  That  was  all  right 
—  it  was  sound.  Next,  we  turned  down  the  banker's 
son  and  the  pork-butcher's  heir  —  right  again,  and 
sound.  Next,  we  turned  down  the  Congressman's 
son  and  the  Governor's  —  right  as  a  trivet,  I  confess  it. 
Next  the  Senator's  son  and  the  son  of  the  Vice- 
37 

94514 


MARK    TWAIN 

President  of  the  United  States — perfectly  righV 
there's  no  permanency  about  those  little  distinctions. 
Then  you  went  for  the  aristocracy;  and  I  thought 
we  had  struck  oil  at  last — yes.  We  would  make  a 
plunge  at  the  Four  Hundred,  and  pull  in  some  ancient 
lineage,  venerable,  holy,  ineffable,  mellow  with  the 
antiquity  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  disinfected 
of  the  ancestral  odors  of  salt-cod  and  pelts  all  of  a 
century  ago,  and  unsmirched  by  a  day's  work  since; 
and  then!  why,  then  the  marriages,  of  course.  But 
no,  along  comes  a  pair  of  real  aristocrats  from 
Europe,  and  straightway  you  throw  over  the  half- 
breeds.  It  was  awfully  discouraging,  Aleck!  Since 
then,  what  a  procession!  You  turned  down  the 
baronets  for  a  pair  of  barons;  you  turned  down  the 
barons  for  a  pair  of  viscounts;  the  viscounts  for  a 
pair  of  earls;  the  earls  for  a  pair  of  marquises;  the 
marquises  for  a  brace  of  dukes.  Now,  Aleck,  cash 
in! — you've  played  the  limit.  You've  got  a  job  lot 
of  four  dukes  under  the  hammer;  of  four  nationali- 
ties; all  sound  in  wind  and  limb  and  pedigree,  all 
bankrupt  and  in  debt  up  to  the  ears.  They  come 
high,  but  we  can  afford  it.  Come,  Aleck,  don't  de- 
lay any  longer,  don't  keep  up  the  suspense :  take  the 
whole  lay-out,  and  leave  the  girls  to  choose!" 

Aleck  had  been  smiling  blandly  and  contentedly 
all  through  this  arraignment  of  her  marriage  policy; 
a  pleasant  light,  as  of  triumph  with  perhaps  a  nice 
surprise  peeping  out  through  it,  rose  in  her  eyes,  and 
she  said,  as  calmly  as  she  could : 

"Sally,  what  would  you  say  to — royalty?" 
Prodigious!    Poor  man,  it  knocked  him  silly,  and 
38 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

he  fell  over  the  garboard-strake  and  barked  his  shin 
on  the  cat-heads.  He  was  dizzy  for  a  moment,  then 
he  gathered  himself  up  and  limped  over  and  sat 
down  by  his  wife  and  beamed  his  old-time  admira- 
tion and  affection  upon  her  in  floods,  out  of  his 
bleary  eyesi 

"By  George!"  he  said,  fervently,  "Aleck,  you  are 
great — the  greatest  woman  in  the  whole  earth!  I 
can't  ever  learn  the  whole  size  of  you.  I  can't  ever 
learn  the  immeasurable  deeps  of  you.  Here  I've 
been  considering  myself  qualified  to  criticize  your 
game.  77  Why,  if  I  had  stopped  to  think,  I'd  have 
known  you  had  a  lone  hand  up  your  sleeve.  Now, 
dear  heart,  I'm  all  red-hot  impatience — tell  me  about 
it!" 

The  flattered  and  happy  woman  put  her  lips  to 
his  ear  and  whispered  a  princely  name.  It  made 
him  catch  his  breath,  it  lit  his  face  with  exultation. 

"Land!"  he  said,  "it's  a  stunning  catch!  He's 
got  a  gambling-hell,  and  a  graveyard,  and  a  bishop, 
and  a  cathedral — all  his  very  own.  And  all  gilt- 
edged  five-hundred-per-cent.  stock,  every  detail  of 
it;  the  tidiest  little  property  in  Europe.  And  that 
graveyard — it's  the  selectest  in  the  world:  none  but 
suicides  admitted;  yes,  sir,  and  the  free-list  suspended, 
too,  all  the  time.  There  isn't  much  land  in  the 
principality,  but  there's  enough :  eight  hundred  acres 
in  the  graveyard  and  forty-two  outside.  It's  a 
sovereignty — that's  the  main  thing;  land's  nothing. 
There's  plenty  land,  Sahara's  drugged  with  it." 

Aleck  glowed;  she  was  profoundly  happy.  She 
said: 


MARK     TWAIN 

"Think  of  it,  Sally — it  is  a  family  that  has  never 
married  outside  the  Royal  and  Imperial  Houses  of 
Europe :  our  grandchildren  will  sit  upon  thrones !" 

"True  as  you  live,  Aleck — and  bear  scepters,  too; 
and  handle  them  as  naturally  and  nonchantly  as 
I  handle  a  yardstick.  It's  a  grand  catch,  Aleck. 
He's  corralled,  is  he?  Can't  get  away?  You  didn't 
take  him  on  a  margin?" 

"No.  Trust  me  for  that.  He's  not  a  liability, 
he's  an  asset.  So  is  the  other  one." 

"Who  is  it,  Aleck?" 

"His  Royal  Highness  Sigismund-Siegfried-Lauen- 
feld-Dinkelspiel-Schwartzenberg  Blutwurst,  Heredi- 
tary Grand  Duke  of  Katzenyammer." 

"No!    You  can't  mean  it!" 

"It's  as  true  as  I'm  sitting  here,  I  give  you  my 
word,"  she  answered. 

His  cup  was  full,  and  he  hugged  her  to  his  heart 
with  rapture,  saying: 

"How  wonderful  it  all  seems,  and  how  beautiful! 
It's  one  of  the  oldest  and  noblest  of  the  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty-four  ancient  German  principalities, 
and  one  of  the  few  that  was  allowed  to  retain  its 
royal  estate  when  Bismarck  got  done  trimming  them. 
I  know  that  farm,  I've  been  there.  It's  got  a  rope- 
walk  and  a  candle-factory  and  an  army.  Standing 
army.  Infantry  and  cavalry.  Three  soldiers  and  a 
horse.  Aleck,  it's  been  a  long  wait,  and  full  of 
heartbreak  and  hope  deferred,  but  God  knows  I  am 
happy  now.  Happy,  and  grateful  to  you,  my 
who  have  done  it  all.  When  is  it  to  be?" 

"Next  Sunday." 

40 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

"Good.  And  we'll  want  to  do  these  weddings  up 
in  the  very  regalest  style  that's  going.  It's  properly 
due  to  the  royal  quality  of  the  parties  of  the  first 
part.  Now  as  I  understand  it,  there  is  only  one 
kind  of  marriage  that  is  sacred  to  royalty,  exclusive 
to  royalty:  it's  the  morganatic." 

"What  do  they  call  it  that  for,  Sally?" 

"I  don't  know;  but  anyway  it's  royal,  and  royal 
only." 

"Then  we  will  insist  upon  it.  More — I  will  com- 
pel it.  It  is  morganatic  marriage  or  none." 

"That  settles  it!"  said  Sally,  rubbing  his  hands 
with  delight.  "And  it  will  be  the  very  first  in 
America,  Aleck,  it  will  make  Newport  sick." 

Then  they  fell  silent,  and  drifted  away  upon  their 
dream  wings  to  the  far  regions  of  the  earth  to  invite 
all  the  crowned  heads  and  their  families  and  provide, 
gratis  transportation  for  them. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

DURING  three  days  the  couple  walked  upon  air, 
with  their  heads  in  the  clouds.  They  were  but 
vaguely  conscious  of  their  surroundings ;  they  saw  all 
things  dimly,  as  through  a  veil;  they  were  steeped  in 
dreams,  often  they  did  not  hear  when  they  were 
spoken  to;  they  often  did  not  understand  when  they 
heard;  they  answered  confusedly  or  at  random; 
Sally  sold  molasses  by  weight,  sugar  by  the  yard, 
and  furnished  soap  when  asked  for  candles,  and 
Aleck  put  the  cat  in  the  wash  and  fed  milk  to  the 
soiled  linen.  Everybody  was  stunned  and  amazed, 
and  went  about  muttering,  "What  can  be  the  matter 
with  the  Fosters?" 

Three  days.  Then  came  events!  Things  had 
taken  a  happy  turn,  and  for  forty-eight  hours  Aleck's 
imaginary  corner  had  been  booming.  Up — up — still 
up!  Cost  point  was  passed.  Still  up — and  up — 
and  up !  Five  points  above  cost — then  ten — fifteen 
— twenty!  Twenty  points  cold  profit  on  the  vast 
venture,  now,  and  Aleck's  imaginary  brokers  were 
shouting  frantically  by  imaginary  long  -  distance, 
"Sell!  sell!  for  Heaven's  sake  sell!" 

She  broke  the  splendid  news  to  Sally,  and  he,  too, 
said,  "Sell!    sell— oh,  don't  make  a  blunder,  now, 
you  own  the  earth!— sell,  sell!"    But  she  set  her 
42 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

iron  will  and  lashed  it  amidships,  and  said  she  would 
hold  on  for  five  points  more  if  she  died  for  it. 

It  was  a  fatal  resolve.  The  very  next  day  came 
the  historic  crash,  the  record  crash,  the  devastating 
crash,  when  the  bottom  fell  out  of  Wall  Street,  and 
the  whole  body  of  gilt-edged  stocks  dropped  ninety- 
five  pints  in  five  hours,  and  the  multimillionaire 
was  seen  begging  his  bread  in  the  Bowery.  Aleck 
sternly  held  her  grip  and  "put  up"  as  long  as  she 
could,  but  at  last  there  came  a  call  which  she  was 
powerless  to  meet,  and  her  imaginary  brokers  sold 
her  out.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  the  man  in  her 
was  vanished,  and  the  woman  in  her  resumed  sway. 
She  put  her  arms  about  her  husband's  neck  and 
wept,  saying: 

"I  am  to  blame,  do  not  forgive  me,  I  cannot  bear 
it.  We  are  paupers!  Paupers,  and  I  am  so  miser- 
able. The  weddings  will  never  come  off;  all  that  is 
past;  we  could  not  even  buy  the  dentist,  now." 

A  bitter  reproach  was  on  Sally's  tongue :  "I  begged 
you  to  sell,  but  you —  He  did  not  say  it;  he  had 
not  the  heart  to  add  a  hurt  to  that  broken  and  re- 
pentant spirit.  A  nobler  thought  came  to  him  and 
he  said: 

"Bear  up,  my  Aleck,  all  is  not  lost!  You  really 
never  invested  a  penny  of  my  uncle's  bequest,  but 
only  its  unmaterialized  future;  what  we  have  lost 
was  only  the  increment  harvested  from  that  future 
by  your  incomparable  financial  judgment  and  sagac- 
ity. Cheer  up,  banish  these  griefs;  we  still  have  the 
thirty  thousand  untouched;  and  with  the  experience 
which  you  have  acquired,  think  what  you  will  be 
43 


MARK    TWAIN 

able  to  do  with  it  in  a  couple  of  years!    The  mar- 
riages are  not  off,  they  are  only  postponed." 

These  were  blessed  words.  Aleck  saw  how  true 
they  were,  and  their  influence  was  electric;  her  tears 
ceased  to  flow,  and  her  great  spirit  rose  to  its  full 
stature  again.  With  flashing  eye  and  grateful  heart, 
and  with  hand  uplifted  in  pledge  and  prophecy,  she 
said: 

"Now  and  here  I  proclaim — " 

But  she  was  interrupted  by  a  visitor.  It  was  the 
editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Sagamore.  He  had  hap- 
pened into  Lakeside  to  pay  a  duty-call  upon  an  ob- 
scure grandmother  of  his  who  was  nearing  the  end  of 
her  pilgrimage,  and  with  the  idea  of  combining  busi- 
ness with  grief  he  had  looked  up  the  Fosters,  who 
had  been  so  absorbed  in  other  things  for  the  past 
four  years  that  they  had  neglected  to  pay  up  their 
subscription.  Six  dollars  due.  No  visitor  could 
have  been  more  welcome.  He  would  know  all  about 
Uncle  Tilbury  and  what  his  chances  might  be  getting 
to  be,  cemeterywards.  They  could,  of  course,  ask 
no  questions,  for  that  would  squelch  the  bequest, 
but  they  could  nibble  around  on  the  edge  of  the  sub- 
ject and  hope  for  results.  The  scheme  did  not  work. 
The  obtuse  editor  did  not  know  he  was  being  nibbled 
at;  but  at  last,  chance  accomplished  what  art  had 
failed  in.  In  illustration  of  something  under  discus- 
sion which  required  the  help  of  metaphor,  the  editor 
said: 

1 '  Land,  it's  as  tough  as  Tilbury  Foster ! — as  we  say." 

It  was  sudden,  and  it  made  the  Fosters  jump. 
,The  editor  noticed  it,  and  said,  apologetically: 
44 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

No  harm  intended,  I  assure  you.     It's  just  a 
Just  a  joke,  you  know — nothing  in  it.    Re- 
lation of  yours?" 

Sally  crowded  his  burning  eagerness  down,  and  an- 
swered with  all  the  indifference  he  could  assume: 

"I — well,  not  that  I  know  of,  but  we've  heard  of 
him."  The  editor  was  thankful,  and  resumed  his 
composure.  Sally  added:  "Is  he — is  he — well?" 

"Is  he  well?  Why,  bless  you  he's  in  Sheol  these 
five  years!" 

The  Fosters  were  trembling  with  grief,  though  it 
felt  like  joy.  Sally  said,  non-committally — and 
tentatively: 

"Ah,  well,  such  is  life,  and  none  can  escape — not 
even  the  rich  are  spared." 

The  editor  laughed. 

"If  you  are  including  Tilbury,"  said  he,  "it  don't 
apply.  He  hadn't  a  cent;  the  town  had  to  bury 
him." 

The  Fosters  sat  petrified  for  two  minutes ;  petrified 
and  cold.  Then,  white-faced  and  weak-voiced,  Sally 
asked: 

" Is  it  true ?    Do  you  know  it  to  be  true?" 

"Well,  I  should  say!  I  was  one  of  the  executors. 
He  hadn't  anything  to  leave  but  a  wheelbarrow,  and 
he  left  that  to  me.  It  hadn't  any  wheel,  and  wasn't 
any  good.  Still,  it  was  something,  and  so,  to  square 
up,  I  scribbled  off  a  sort  of  a  little  obituarial  send-off 
for  him,  but  it  got  crowded  out." 

The  Fosters  were  not  listening — their  cup  was  full, 
it  could  contain  no  more.     They  sat  with  bowed 
heads,  dead  to  all  things  but  the  ache  at  their  hearts. 
45 


MARK    TWAIN 

An  hour  later.  Still  they  sat  there,  bowed,  mo- 
tionless, silent,  the  visitor  long  ago  gone,  they  un- 
aware. 

Then  they  stirred,  and  lifted  their  heads  wearily, 
and  gazed  at  each  other  wistfully,  dreamily,  dazed; 
then  presently  began  to  twaddle  to  each  other  in  a 
wandering  and  childish  way.  At  intervals  they 
lapsed  into  silences,  leaving  a  sentence  unfinished, 
seemingly  either  unaware  of  it  or  losing  their  way. 
Sometimes,  when  they  woke  out  of  these  silences 
they  had  a  dim  and  transient  consciousness  that 
something  had  happened  to  their  minds;  then  with 
a  dumb  and  yearning  solicitude  they  would  softly 
caress  each  other's  hands  in  mutual  compassion  and 
support,  as  if  they  would  say :  "I  am  near  you,  I  will 
not  forsake  you,  we  will  bear  it  together ;  somewhere 
there  is  release  and  forgetfulness,  somewhere  there  is 
a  grave  and  peace;  be  patient,  it  will  not  be  long." 

They  lived  yet  two  years,  in  mental  night,  always 
brooding,  steeped  in  vague  regrets  and  melancholy 
dreams,  never  speaking;  then  release  came  to  both 
on  the  same  day. 

Toward  the  end  the  darkness  lifted  from  Sally's 
ruined  mind  for  a  moment,  and  he  said: 

"Vast  wealth,  acquired  by  sudden  and  unwhole- 
some means,  is  a  snare.  It  did  us  no  good,  transient 
were  its  feverish  pleasures ;  yet  for  its  sake  we  threw 
away  our  sweet  and  simple  and  happy  lif  e — let  others 
take  warning  by  us." 

He  lay  silent  awhile,  with  closed  eyes;  then  as  the 
chill  of  death  crept  upward  toward  his  heart,  and 
consciousness  was  fading  from  his  brain,  he  muttered: 
46 


THE    $30,000    BEQUEST 

"Money  had  brought  him  misery,  and  he  took  his 
revenge  upon  us,  who  had  done  him  no  harm.  He 
had  his  desire :  with  base  and  cunning  calculation  he 
left  us  but  thirty  thousand,  knowing  we  would  try 
to  increase  it,  and  ruin  our  life  and  break  our  hearts. 
Without  added  expense  he  could  have  left  us  far 
above  desire  of  increase,  far  above  the  temptation  to 
speculate,  and  a  kinder  soul  would  have  done  it;  but 
in  him  was  no  generous  spirit,  no  pity, 


A  DOG'S   TALE 

CHAPTER  I 

MY  father  was  a  St.  Bernard,  my  mother  was  a 
collie,  but  I  am  a  Presbyterian.  This  is  what 
my  mother  told  me;  I  do  not  know  these  nice  dis- 
tinctions myself.  To  me  they  are  only  fine  large 
words  meaning  nothing.  My  mother  had  a  fondness 
for  such;  she  liked  to  say  them,  and  see  other  dogs 
look  surprised  and  envious,  as  wondering  how  she 
got  so  much  education.  But,  indeed,  it  was  not  real 
education;  it  was  only  show:  she  got  the  words  by 
listening  in  the  dining-room  and  drawing-room  when 
there  was  company,  and  by  going  with  the  children 
to  Sunday-school  and  listening  there ;  and  whenever 
she  heard  a  large  word  she  said  it  over  to  herself 
many  times,  and  so  was  able  to  keep  it  until  there 
was  a  dogmatic  gathering  in  the  neighborhood,  then 
she  would  get  it  off,  and  surprise  and  distress  them 
all,  from  pocket-pup  to  mastiff,  which  rewarded  her 
for  all  her  trouble.  If  there  was  a  stranger  he  was 
nearly  sure  to  be  suspicious,  and  when  he  got  his 
breath  again  he  would  ask  her  what  it  meant.  And 
she  always  told  him.  He  was  never  expecting  this, 
but  thought  he  would  catch  her;  so  when  she  told 
48 


A    DOG'S    TALE 

him,  he  was  the  one  that  looked  ashamed,  whereas 
he  had  thought  it  was  going  to  be  she.  The  others 
were  always  waiting  for  this,  and  glad  of  it  and 
proud  of  her,  for  they  knew  what  was  going  to  hap- 
pen, because  they  had  had  experience.  When  she 
told  the  meaning  of  a  big  word  they  were  all  so  taken 
up  with  admiration  that  it  never  occurred  to  any 
dog  to  doubt  if  it  was  the  right  one;  and  that  was 
natural,  because,  for  one  thing,  she  answered  up  so 
promptly  that  it  seemed  like  a  dictionary  speaking, 
and  for  another  thing,  where  could  they  find  out 
whether  it  was  right  or  not?  for  she  was  the  only 
cultivated  dog  there  was.  By  and  by,  when  I  was 
older,  she  brought  home  the  word  Unintellectual, 
one  time,  and  worked  it  pretty  hard  all  the  week  at 
different  gatherings,  making  much  unhappiness  and 
despondency ;  and  it  was  at  this  time  that  I  noticed 
that  during  that  week  she  was  asked  for  the  meaning 
at  eight  different  assemblages,  and  flashed  out  a 
fresh  definition  every  time,  which  showed  me  that 
she  had  more  presence  of  mind  than  culture,  though 
I  said  nothing,  of  course.  She  had  one  word  which 
she  always  kept  on  hand,  and  ready,  like  a  life-pre- 
server, a  kind  of  emergency  word  to  strap  on  when  she 
was  likely  to  get  washed  overboard  in  a  sudden  way 
— that  was  the  word  Synonymous.  When  she  hap- 
pened to  fetch  out  a  long  word  which  had  had  its  day 
weeks  before  and  its  prepared  meanings  gone  to  her 
dump-pile,  if  there  was  a  stranger  there  of  course  it 
knocked  him  groggy  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  then 
he  would  come  to,  and  by  that  time  she  would  be 
away  down  the  wind  on  another  tack,  and  not  ex- 
49 


MARK     TWAIN 

pecting  anything;  so  when  he'd  hail  and  ask  her  to 
cash  in,  I  (the  only  dog  on  the  inside  of  her  game) 
could  see  her  canvas  nicker  a  moment — but  only  just 
a  moment — then  it  would  belly  out  taut  and  full, 
and  she  would  say,  as  calm  as  a  summer's  day,  ' '  It's 
synonymous  with  supererogation,"  or  some  godless 
long  reptile  of  a  word  like  that,  and  go  placidly  about 
and  skim  away  on  the  next  tack,  perfectly  com- 
fortable, you  know,  and  leave  that  stranger  looking 
profane  and  embarrassed,  and  the  initiated  slatting 
the  floor  with  their  tails  in  unison  and  their  faces 
transfigured  with  a  holy  joy. 

And  it  was  the  same  with  phrases.  She  would 
drag  home  a  whole  phrase,  if  it  had  a  grand  sound, 
and  play  it  six  nights  and  two  matinees,  and  explain 
it  a  new  way  every  time — which  she  had  to,  for  all 
she  cared  for  was  the  phrase;  she  wasn't  interested 
in  what  it  meant,  and  knew  those  dogs  hadn't  wit 
enough  to  catch  her,  anyway.  Yes,  she  was  a  daisy ! 
She  got  so  she  wasn't  afraid  of  anything,  she  had 
such  confidence  in  the  ignorance  of  those  creatures. 
She  even  brought  anecdotes  that  she  had  heard  the 
family  and  the  dinner-guests  laugh  and  shout  over; 
and  as  a  rule  she  got  the  nub  of  one  chestnut  hitched 
onto  another  chestnut,  where,  of  course,  it  didn't  fit 
and  hadn't  any  point;  and  when  she  delivered  the 
nub  she  fell  over  and  rolled  on  the  floor  and  laughed 
and  barked  in  the  most  insane  way,  while  I  could 
see  that  she  was  wondering  to  herself  why  it  didn't 
seem  as  funny  as  it  did  when  she  first  heard  it.  But 
no  harm  was  done;  the  others  rolled  and  barked  too, 
privately  ashamed  of  themselves  for  not  seeing  the 
So 


A    DOG'S    TALE 

point,  and  never  suspecting  that  the  fault  was  not 
with  them  and  there  wasn't  any  to  see. 

You  can  see  by  these  things  that  she  was  of  a 
rather  vain  and  frivolous  character;  still,  she  had 
virtues,  and  enough  to  make  up,  I  think.  She  had 
a  kind  heart  and  gentle  ways,  and  never  harbored 
resentments  for  injuries  done  her,  but  put  them 
easily  out  of  her  mind  and  forgot  them;  and  she 
taught  her  children  her  kindly  way,  and  from  her  we 
learned  also  to  be  brave  and  prompt  in  time  of 
danger,  and  not  to  run  away,  but  face  the  peril  that 
threatened  friend  or  stranger,  and  help  him  the  best 
we  could  without  stopping  to  think  what  the  cost 
might  be  to  us.  And  she  taught  us  not  by  words 
only,  but  by  example,  and  that  is  the  best  way  and 
the  surest  and  the  most  lasting.  Why,  the  brave 
things  she  did,  the  splendid  things!  she  was  just  a 
soldier;  and  so  modest  about  it — well,  you  couldn't 
help  admiring  her,  and  you  couldn't  help  imitating 
her;  not  even  a  King  Charles  spaniel  could  remain 
entirely  despicable  in  her  society.  So,  as  you  see, 
there  was  more  to  her  than  her  education. 


CHAPTER   II 

WHEN  I  was  well  grown,  at  last,  I  was  sold  and 
taken  away,  and  I  never  saw  her  again.  She 
was  broken-hearted,  and  so  was  I,  and  we  cried;  but 
she  comforted  me  as  well  as  she  could,  and  said  we 
were  sent  into  this  world  for  a  wise  and  good  purpose, 
and  must  do  our  duties  without  repining,  take  our  life 
as  we  might  find  it,  live  it  for  the  best  good  of  others, 
and  never  mind  about  the  results;  they  were  not  our 
affair.  She  said  men  who  did  like  this  would  have 
a  noble  and  beautiful  reward  by  and  by  in  another 
world,  and  although  we  animals  would  not  go  there, 
to  do  well  and  right  without  reward  would  give  to 
our  brief  lives  a  worthiness  and  dignity  which  in  it- 
self would  be  a  reward.  She  had  gathered  these 
things  from  time  to  time  when  she  had  gone  to  the 
Sunday-school  with  the  children,  and  had  laid  them 
up  in  her  memory  more  carefully  than  she  had  done 
with  those  other  words  and  phrases;  and  she  had 
studied  them  deeply,  for  her  good  and  ours.  One 
may  see  by  this  that  she  had  a  wise  and  thoughtful 
head,  for  all  there  was  so  much  lightness  and  vanity 
in  it. 

So  we  said  our  farewells,  and  looked  our  last  upon 
each  other  through  our  tears;  and  the  last  thing  she 
said — keeping  it  for  the  last  to  make  me  remember 
52 


A    DOG'S    TALE 

it  the  better,  I  think — was,  "In  memory  of  me,  when 
there  is  a  time  of  danger  to  another  do  not  think 
of  yourself,  think  of  your  mother,  and  do  as  she 
would  do." 

Do  you  think  I  could  forget  that?    No, 


CHAPTER    III 

IT  was  such  a  charming  home ! — my  new  one;  a  fine 
great  house,  with  pictures,  and  delicate  decora- 
tions, and  rich  furniture,  and  no  gloom  anywhere, 
but  all  the  wilderness  of  dainty  colors  lit  up  with 
flooding  sunshine;  and  the  spacious  grounds  around 
it,  and  the  great  garden — oh,  greensward,  and  noble 
trees,  and  flowers,  no  end!  And  I  was  the  same  as 
a  member  of  the  family;  and  they  loved  me,  and 
petted  me,  and  did  not  give  me  a  new  name,  but 
called  me  by  my  old  one  that  was  dear  to  me  because 
my  mother  had  given  it  me — Aileen  Mavourneen. 
She  got  it  out  of  a  song;  and  the  Grays  knew  that 
song,  and  said  it  was  a  beautiful  name. 

Mrs.  Gray  was  thirty,  and  so  sweet  and  so  lovely, 
you  cannot  imagine  it;  and  Sadie  was  ten,  and  just 
like  her  mother,  just  a  darling  slender  little  copy  of 
her,  with  auburn  tails  down  her  back,  and  short 
frocks;  and  the  baby  was  a  year  old,  and  plump  and 
dimpled,  and  fond  of  me,  and  never  could  get  enough 
of  hauling  on  my  tail,  and  hugging  me,  and  laughing 
out  its  innocent  happiness;  and  Mr.  Gray  was  thirty- 
eight,  and  tall  and  slender  and  handsome,  a  little 
bald  in  front,  alert,  quick  in  his  movements,  business- 
like, prompt,  decided,  unsentimental,  and  with  that 
kind  of  trim-chiseled  face  that  just  seems  to  glint 
54 


A    DOG'S    TALE 

and  sparkle  with  frosty  intellectuality!  He  was  a 
renowned  scientist.  I  do  not  know  what  the  word 
means,  but  my  mother  would  know  how  to  use  it  and 
get  effects.  She  would  know  how  to  depress  a  rat- 
terrier  with  it  and  make  a  lap-dog  look  sorry  he 
came.  But  that  is  not  the  best  one;  the  best  one 
was  Laboratory.  My  mother  could  organize  a  Trust 
on  that  one  that  would  skin  the  tax-collars  off  the 
whole  herd.  The  laboratory  was  not  a  book,  or  a 
picture,  or  a  place  to  wash  your  hands  in,  as  the 
college  president's  dog  said — no,  that  is  the  lavatory ; 
the  laboratory  is  quite  different,  and  is  filled  with 
jars,  and  bottles,  and  electrics,  and  wires,  and  strange 
machines;  and  every  week  other  scientists  came  there 
and  sat  in  the  place,  and  used  the  machines,  and 
discussed,  and  made  what  they  called  experiments 
and  discoveries;  and  often  I  came,  too,  and  stood 
around  and  listened,  and  tried  to  learn,  for  the  sake 
of  my  mother,  and  in  loving  memory  of  her,  although 
it  was  a  pain  to  me,  as  realizing  what  she  was  losing 
out  of  her  life  and  I  gaining  nothing  at  all;  for  try 
as  I  might,  I  was  never  able  to  make  anything  out 
of  it  at  all. 

Other  times  I  lay  on  the  floor  in  the  mistress's 
work-room  and  slept,  she  gently  using  me  for  a 
foot-stool,  knowing  it  pleased  me,  for  it  was  a  caress; 
other  times  I  spent  an  hour  in  the  nursery,  and  got 
well  tousled  and  made  happy;  other  times  I  watched 
by  the  crib  there,  when  the  baby  was  asleep  and  the 
nurse  out  for  a  few  minutes  on  the  baby's  affairs; 
other  times  I  romped  and  raced  through  the  grounds 
and  the  garden  with  Sadie  till  we  were  tired  out, 
55 


MARK    TWAIN 

then  slumbered  on  the  grass  in  the  shade  of  a  tree 
while  she  read  her  book;  other  times  I  went  visiting 
among  the  neighbor  dogs — for  there  were  some  most 
pleasant  ones  not  far  away,  and  one  very  handsome 
and  courteous  and  graceful  one,  a  curly-haired  Irish 
setter  by  the  name  of  Robin  Adair,  who  was  a 
Presbyterian  like  me,  and  belonged  to  the  Scotch 
minister. 

The  servants  in  our  house  were  all  kind  to  me  and 
were  fond  of  me,  and  so,  as  you  see,  mine  was  a 
pleasant  life.  There  could  not  be  a  happier  dog  than 
I  was,  nor  a  gratefuler  one.  I  will  say  this  for 
myself,  for  it  is  only  the  truth:  I  tried  in  all  ways 
to  do  well  and  right,  and  honor  my  mother's  memory 
and  her  teachings,  and  earn  the  happiness  that  had 
come  to  me,  as  best  I  could. 

By  and  by  came  my  little  puppy,  and  then  my 
cup  was  full,  my  happiness  was  perfect.  It  was  the 
dearest  little  waddling  thing,  and  so  smooth  and  soft 
and  velvety,  and  had  such  cunning  little  awkward 
paws,  and  such  affectionate  eyes,  and  such  a  sweet 
and  innocent  face;  and  it  made  me  so  proud  to  see 
how  the  children  and  their  mother  adored  it,  and 
fondled  it,  and  exclaimed  over  every  little  wonderful 
thing  it  did.  It  did  seem  to  me  that  life  was  just 
too  lovely  to — 

Then  came  the  winter.  One  day  I  was  standing  a 
watch  in  the  nursery.  That  is  to  say,  I  was  asleep 
on  the  bed.  The  baby  was  asleep  in  the  crib,  which 
was  alongside  the  bed,  on  the  side  next  the  fireplace. 
It  was  the  kind  of  crib  that  has  a  lofty  tent  over  it 
made  of  a  gauzy  stuff  that  you  can  see  through. 
56 


A    DOG'S    TALE 

The  nurse  was  out,  and  we  two  sleepers  were  alone, 
A  spark  from  the  wood-fire  was  shot  out,  and  it  lit 
on  the  slope  of  the  tent.  I  suppose  a  quiet  interval 
followed,  then  a  scream  from  the  baby  woke  me,  and 
there  was  that  tent  flaming  up  toward  the  ceiling! 
Before  I  could  think,  I  sprang  to  the  floor  in  my 
fright,  and  in  a  second  was  half-way  to  the  door;  but 
in  the  next  half-second  my  mother's  farewell  was 
sounding  in  my  ears,  and  I  was  back  on  the  bed 
again.  I  reached  my  head  through  the  flames  and 
dragged  the  baby  out  by  the  waist-band,  and  tugged 
it  along,  and  we  fell  to  the  floor  together  in  a  cloud 
of  smoke;  I  snatched  a  new  hold,  and  dragged  the 
screaming  little  creature  along  and  out  at  the  door 
and  around  the  bend  of  the  hall,  and  was  still  tug- 
ging away,  all  excited  and  happy  and  proud,  when 
the  master's  voice  shouted: 

"Begone,  you  cursed  beast!"  and  I  jumped  to 
save  myself;  but  he  was  wonderfully  quick,  and 
chased  me  up,  striking  furiously  at  me  with  his  cane, 
I  dodging  this  way  and  that,  in  terror,  and  at  last  a 
strong  blow  fell  upon  my  left  foreleg,  which  made 
me  shriek  and  fall,  for  the  moment,  helpless;  the 
cane  went  up  for  another  blow,  but  never  descended, 
for  the  nurse's  voice  rang  wildly  out,  "The  nursery's 
on  fire!"  and  the  master  rushed  away  in  that  direc- 
tion, and  my  other  bones  were  saved. 

The  pain  was  cruel,  but,  no  matter,  I  must  not 
lose  any  time;  he  might  come  back  at  any  moment; 
so  I  limped  on  three  legs  to  the  other  end  of  the  hall, 
where  there  was  a  dark  little  stairway  leading  up 
into  a  garret  where  old  boxes  and  such  things  were 
57 


MARK    TWAIN 

kept,  as  I  had  heard  say,  and  where  people  seldom 
went.  I  managed  to  climb  up  there,  then  I  searched 
my  way  through  the  dark  among  the  piles  of  things, 
and  hid  in  the  secretest  place  I  could  find.  It  was 
foolish  to  be  afraid  there,  yet  still  I  was;  so  afraid 
that  I  held  in  and  hardly  even  whimpered,  though  it 
would  have  been  such  a  comfort  to  whimper,  because 
that  eases  the  pain,  you  know.  But  I  could  lick  my 
leg,  and  that  did  me  some  good. 

For  half  an  hour  there  was  a  commotion  down- 
stairs, and  shoutings,  and  rushing  footsteps,  and 
then  there  was  quiet  again.  Quiet  for  some  minutes, 
and  that  was  grateful  to  my  spirit,  for  then  my  fears 
began  to  go  down;  and  fears  are  worse  than  pains — 
oh,  much  worse.  Then  came  a  sound  that  froze  me. 
They  were  calling  me — calling  me  by  name — hunting 
for  me! 

It  was  muffled  by  distance,  but  that  could  not 
take  the  terror  out  of  it,  and  it  was  the  most  dread- 
ful sound  to  me  that  I  had  ever  heard.  It  went  all 
about,  everywhere,  down  there:  along  the  halls, 
through  all  the  rooms,  in  both  stories,  and  in  the 
basement  and  the  cellar;  then  outside,  and  farther 
and  farther  away — then  back,  and  all  about  the 
house  again,  and  I  thought  it  would  never,  never 
stop.  But  at  last  it  did,  hours  and  hours  after  the 
vague  twilight  of  the  garret  had  long  ago  been 
blotted  out  by  black  darkness. 

Then  in  that  blessed  stillness  my  terrors  fell  little 

by  little  away,  and  I  was  at  peace  and  slept.     It  was 

a  good  rest  I  had,  but  I  woke  before  the  twilight  had 

come  again.    I  was  feeling  fairly  comfortable,  and  I 

58 


A    DOG'S    TALE 

could  think  out  a  plan  now.  I  made  a  very  good 
one;  which  was,  to  creep  down,  all  the  way  down 
the  back  stairs,  and  hide  behind  the  cellar  door,  and 
slip  out  and  escape  when  the  iceman  came  at  dawn, 
while  he  was  inside  filling  the  refrigerator;  then  I 
would  hide  all  day,  and  start  on  my  journey  when 
night  came;  my  journey  to — well,  anywhere  where 
they  would  not  know  me  and  betray  me  to  the 
master.  I  was  feeling  almost  cheerful  now;  then 
suddenly  I  thought:  Why,  what  would  life  be  with- 
out my  puppy! 

That  was  despair.  There  was  no  plan  for  me;  I 
saw  that;  I  must  stay  where  I  was;  stay,  and  wait, 
and  take  what  might  come — it  was  not  my  affair; 
that  was  what  life  is — my  mother  had  said  it.  Then 
— well,  then  the  calling  began  again!  All  my  sor- 
rows came  back.  I  said  to  myself,  the  master  will 
never  forgive.  I  did  not  know  what  I  had  done 
to  make  him  so  bitter  and  so  unforgiving,  yet  I 
judged  it  was  something  a  dog  could  not  under- 
stand, but  which  was  clear  to  a  man  and  dreadful. 

They  called  and  called — days  and  nights,  it  seemed 
to  me.  So  long  that  the  hunger  and  thirst  near 
drove  me  mad,  and  I  recognized  that  I  was  getting 
very  weak.  When  you  are  this  way  you  sleep  a 
great  deal,  and  I  did.  Once  I  woke  in  an  awful 
fright — it  seemed  to  me  that  the  calling  was  right 
there  in  the  garret!  And  so  it  was:  it  was  Sadie's 
voice,  and  she  was  crying;  my  name  was  falling  from 
her  lips  all  broken,  poor  thing,  and  I  could  not  be- 
lieve my  ears  for  the  joy  of  it  when  I  heard  her 
say: 

59 


MARK    TWAIN 

"Come  back  to  us — oh,  come  back  to  us,  and  for- 
give— it  is  all  so  sad  without  our — 

I  broke  in  with  such  a  grateful  little  yelp,  and  the 
next  moment  Sadie  was  plunging  and  stumbling 
through  the  darkness  and  the  lumber  and  shouting 
for  the  family  to  hear,  "She's  found,  she's  found!" 

The  days  that  followed — well,  they  were  wonder- 
ful. The  mother  and  Sadie  and  the  servants — why, 
they  just  seemed  to  worship  me.  They  couldn't 
seem  to  make  me  a  bed  that  was  fine  enough;  and 
as  for  food,  they  couldn't  be  satisfied  with  anything 
but  game  and  delicacies  that  were  out  of  season;  and 
every  day  the  friends  and  neighbors  flocked  in  to 
hear  about  my  heroism — that  was  the  name  they 
called  it  by,  and  it  means  agriculture.  I  remember 
my  mother  pulling  it  on  a  kennel  once,  and  explain- 
ing it  that  way,  but  didn't  say  what  agriculture  was, 
except  that  it  was  synonymous  with  intramural  in- 
candescence ;  and  a  dozen  times  a  day  Mrs.  Gray  and 
Sadie  would  tell  the  tale  to  new-comers,  and  say  I 
risked  my  life  to  save  the  baby's,  and  both  of  us  had 
burns  to  prove  it,  and  then  the  company  would  pass 
me  around  and  pet  me  and  exclaim  about  me,  and 
you  could  see  the  pride  in  the  eyes  of  Sadie  and  her 
mother;  and  when  the  people  wanted  to  know  what 
made  me  limp,  they  looked  ashamed  and  changed 
the  subject,  and  sometimes  when  people  hunted 
them  this  way  and  that  way  with  questions  about  it, 
it  looked  to  me  as  if  they  were  going  to  cry. 

And  this  was  not  all  the  glory;  no,  the  master's 
friends  came,  a  whole  twenty  of  the  most  distin- 
60 


A    DOG'S    TALE 

guished  people,  and  had  me  in  the  laboratory,  and 
discussed  me  as  if  I  was  a  kind  of  discovery;  and 
some  of  them  said  it  was  wonderful  in  a  dumb  beast, 
the  finest  exhibition  of  instinct  they  could  call  to 
mind;  but  the  master  said,  with  vehemence,  "It's 
far  above  instinct;  it's  reason,  and  many  a  man, 
privileged  to  be  saved  and  go  with  you  and  me  to  a 
better  world  by  right  of  its  possession,  has  less  of  it 
than  this  poor  silly  quadruped  that's  foreordained  to 
perish  " ;  and  then  he  laughed,  and  said :  "Why,  look 
at  me — I'm  a  sarcasm!  bless  you,  with  all  my  grand 
intelligence,  the  only  thing  I  inferred  was  that  the 
dog  had  gone  mad  and  was  destroying  the  child, 
whereas  but  for  the  beast's  intelligence — it's  reason, 
I  tell  you! — the  child  would  have  perished!" 

They  disputed  and  disputed,  and  /  was  the  very 
center  and  subject  of  it  all,  and  I  wished  my  mother 
could  know  that  this  grand  honor  had  come  to  me; 
it  would  have  made  her  proud. 

Then  they  discussed  optics,  as  they  called  it,  and 
whether  a  certain  injury  to  the  brain  would  produce 
blindness  or  not,  but  they  could  not  agree  about  it, 
and  said  they  must  test  it  by  experiment  by  and  by; 
and  next  they  discussed  plants,  and  that  interested 
me,  because  in  the  summer  Sadie  and  I  had  planted 
seeds — I  helped  her  dig  the  holes,  you  know — and 
after  days  and  days  a  little  shrub  or  a  flower  came  up 
there,  and  it  was  a  wonder  how  that  could  happen; 
but  it  did,  and  I  wished  I  could  talk — I  would  have 
told  those  people  about  it  and  shown  them  how 
much  I  knew,  and  been  all  alive  with  the  subject; 
but  I  didn't  care  for  the  optics;  it  was  dull,  and 
61 


MARK    TWAIN 

when  they  came  back  to  it  again  it  bored  me,  and  I 
went  to  sleep. 

Pretty  soon  it  was  spring,  and  sunny  and  pleasant 
and  lovely,  and  the  sweet  mother  and  the  children 
patted  me  and  the  puppy  good-by,  and  went  away 
on  a  journey  and  a  visit  to  their  kin,  and  the  master 
wasn't  any  company  for  us,  but  we  played  together 
and  had  good  times,  and  the  servants  were  kind  and 
friendly,  so  we  got  along  quite  happily  and  counted 
the  days  and  waited  for  the  family. 

And  one  day  those  men  came  again,  and  said, 
now  for  the  test,  and  they  took  the  puppy  to  the  labo- 
ratory, and  I  limped  three-leggedly  along,  too,  feeling 
proud,  for  any  attention  shown  the  puppy  was  a 
pleasure  to  me,  of  course.  They  discussed  and  ex- 
perimented, and  then  suddenly  the  puppy  shrieked, 
and  they  set  him  on  the  floor,  and  he  went  stagger- 
ing around,  with  his  head  all  bloddy,  and  the  master 
clapped  his  hands  and  shouted : 

"There,  I've  won — confess  it!  He's  as  blind  as  a 
bat!" 

And  they  all  said : 

"It's  so — you've  proved  your  theory,  and  suffer- 
ing humanity  owes  you  a  great  debt  from  hence- 
forth," and  they  crowded  around  him,  and  wrung 
his  hand  cordially  and  thankfully,  and  praised  him. 

But  I  hardly  saw  or  heard  these  things,  for  I  ran 
at  once  to  my  little  darling,  and  snuggled  close  to  it 
where  it  lay,  and  licked  the  blood,  and  it  put  its 
head  against  mine,  whimpering  softly,  and  I  knew 
in  my  heart  it  was  a  comfort  to  it  in  its  pain  and 
trouble  to  feel  its  mother's  touch,  though  it  could  not 
62 


"  POOR   LITTLE   DOGGIE,  YOU  SXVEO  H/S   CHILD  " 


A    DOG'S    TALE 

see  me.  Then  it  dropped  down,  presently,  and  its 
little  velvet  nose  rested  upon  the  floor,  and  it  was 
still,  and  did  not  move  any  more. 

Soon  the  master  stopped  discussing  a  moment,  and 
rang  in  the  footman,  and  said,  "Bury  it  in  the  far 
corner  of  the  garden,"  and  then  went  on  with  the 
discussion,  and  I  trotted  after  the  footman,  very 
happy  and  grateful,  for  I  knew  the  puppy  was  out 
of  its  pain  now,  because  it  was  asleep.  We  went  far 
down  the  garden  to  the  farthest  end,  where  the 
children  and  the  nurse  and  the  puppy  and  I  used  to 
play  in  the  summer  in  the  shade  of  a  great  elm,  and 
there  the  footman  dug  a  hole,  and  I  saw  he  was  go- 
ing to  plant  the  puppy,  and  I  was  glad,  because  it 
would  grow  and  come  up  a  fine  handsome  dog,  like 
Robin  Adair,  and  be  a  beautiful  surprise  for  the 
family  when  they  came  home;  so  I  tried  to  help  him 
dig,  but  my  lame  leg  was  no  good,  being  stiff,  you 
know,  and  you  have  to  have  two,  or  it  is  no  use. 
When  the  footman  had  finished  and  covered  little 
Robin  up,  he  patted  my  head,  and  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes,  and  he  said:  "Poor  little  doggie,  you 
SAVED  his  child." 

I  have  watched  two  whole  weeks,  and  he  doesn't 
come  up!  This  last  week  a  fright  has  been  stealing 
upon  me.  I  think  there  is  something  terrible  about 
this.  I  do  not  know  what  it  is,  but  the  fear  makes 
me  sick,  and  I  cannot  eat,  though  the  servants 
bring  me  the  best  of  food;  and  they  pet  me  so,  and 
even  come  in  the  night,  and  cry,  and  say,  "Poor 
doggie — do  give  it  up  and  come  home;  don't  break 
our  hearts!"  and  all  this  terrifies  me  the  more,  and 
63 


MARK    TWAIN 

makes  me  sure  something  has  happened.  And  I  am 
so  weak;  since  yesterday  I  cannot  stand  on  my  feet 
any  more.  And  within  this  hour  the  servants,  look- 
ing toward  the  sun  where  it  was  sinking  out  of  sight 
and  the  night  chill  coming  on,  said  things  I  could  not 
understand,  but  they  carried  something  cold  to  my 
heart. 

"Those  poor  creatures!  They  do  not  suspect. 
They  will  come  home  in  the  morning,  and  eagerly 
ask  for  the  little  doggie  that  did  the  brave  deed,  and 
who  of  us  will  be  strong  enough  to  say  the  truth  to 
them :  " '  The  humble  little  friend  is  gone  where  go  the 
beasts  that  perish.' " 


WAS    IT    HEAVEN?     OR    HELL? 
CHAPTER  I 


told  a  lief'1 

You  confess  it — you  actually  confess  it — 
you  told  a  lie!" 


"WOT 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  family  consisted  of  four  persons:  Margaret 
Lester,  widow,  aged  thirty-six ;  Helen  Lester,  her 
daughter,  aged  sixteen;  Mrs.  Lester's  maiden  aunts, 
Hannah  and  Hester  Gray,  twins,  aged  sixty-seven. 
Waking  and  sleeping,  the  three  women  spent  their 
days  and  nights  in  adoring  the  young  girl ;  in  watch- 
ing the  movements  of  her  sweet  spirit  in  the  mirror 
of  her  face;  in  refreshing  their  souls  with  the  vision 
of  her  bloom  and  beauty;  in  listening  to  the  music  of 
her  voice;  in  gratefully  recognizing  how  rich  and  fair 
for  them  was  the  world  with  this  presence  in  it;  in 
shuddering  to  think  how  desolate  it  would  be  with 
this  light  gone  out  of  it. 

By  nature — and  inside — the  aged  aunts  were  ut- 
terly dear  and  lovable  and  good,  but  in  the  matter 
of  morals  and  conduct  their  training  had  been  so 
uncompromisingly  strict  that  it  had  made  them 
exteriorly  austere,  not  to  say  stern.  Their  influence 
was  effective  in  the  house;  so  effective  that  the 
mother  and  the  daughter  conformed  to  its  moral  and 
religious  requirements  cheerfully,  contentedly,  hap- 
pily, unquestionably.  To  do  this  was  become  second 
nature  to  them.  And  so  in  this  peaceful  heaven 
there  were  no  clashings,  no  irritations,  no  fault- 
findings, no  heart-burnings. 
66 


WAS    IT    HEAVEN?    OR    HELL? 

In  it  a  lie  had  no  place.  In  it  a  lie  was  unthink- 
able. In  it  speech  was  restricted  to  absolute  truth, 
iron-bound  truth,  implacable  and  uncompromising 
truth,  let  the  resulting  consequences  be  what  they 
might.  At  last,  one  day,  under  stress  of  circum- 
stances, the  darling  of  the  house  sullied  her  lips  with 
a  lie — and  confessed  it,  with  tears  and  self-upbraid- 
ings.  There  are  not  any  words  that  can  paint  the 
consternation  of  the  aunts.  It  was  as  if  the  sky  had 
crumpled  up  and  collapsed  and  the  earth  had  tum- 
bled to  ruin  with  a  crash.  They  sat  side  by  side, 
white  and  stern,  gazing  speechless  upon  the  culprit, 
who  was  on  her  knees  before  them  with  her  face 
buried  first  in  one  lap  and  then  the  other,  moaning 
and  sobbing,  and  appealing  for  sympathy  and  for- 
giveness and  getting  no  response,  humbly  kissing 
the  hand  of  the  one,  then  of  the  other,  only  tc 
see  it  withdrawn  as  suffering  defilement  by  those 
soiled  lips. 

Twice,  at  intervals,  Aunt  Hester  said,  in  frozen 
amazement: 

"You  told  a  to?" 

Twice,  at  intervals,  Aunt  Hannah  followed  with 
the  muttered  and  amazed  ejaculation: 

"You  confess  it — you  actually  confess  it — you 
told  a  lie!" 

It  was  all  they  could  say.  The  situation  was  new, 
unheard  of,  incredible;  they  could  not  understand  it, 
they  did  not  know  how  to  take  hold  of  it,  it  approxi- 
mately paralyzed  speech. 

At  length  it  was  decided  that  the  erring  child  must 
be  taken  to  her  mother,  who  was  ill,  and  who  ought  to 
67 


MARK    TWAIN 

know  what  had  happened.  Helen  begged,  besought, 
implored  that  she  might  be  spared  this  further  dis- 
grace, and  that  her  mother  might  be  spared  the 
grief  and  pain  of  it;  but  this  could  not  be:  duty 
required  this  sacrifice,  duty  takes  precedence  of  all 
things,  nothing  can  absolve  one  from  a  duty,  with  a 
duty  no  compromise  is  possible. 

Helen  still  begged,  and  said  the  sin  was  her  own, 
her  mother  had  had  no  hand  in  it — why  must  she 
be  made  to  suffer  for  it? 

But  the  aunts  were  obdurate  in  their  righteous- 
ness, and  said  the  law  that  visited  the  sins  of  the 
parent  upon  the  child  was  by  all  right  and  reason 
reversible;  and  therefore  it  was  but  just  that  the 
innocent  mother  of  a  sinning  child  should  suffer  her 
rightful  share  of  the  grief  and  pain  and  shame  which 
were  the  allotted  wages  of  the  sin. 

The  three  moved  toward  the  sick-room. 

At  this  time  the  doctor  was  approaching  the 
house.  He  was  still  a  good  distance  away,  however. 
He  was  a  good  doctor  and  a  good  man,  and  he  had 
a  good  heart,  but  one  had  to  know  him  a  year  to 
get  over  hating  him,  two  years  to  learn  to  endure 
him,  three  to  learn  to  like  him,  and  four  or  five  to 
learn  to  love  him.  It  was  a  slow  and  trying  educa- 
tion, but  it  paid.  He  was  of  great  stature;  he  had 
a  leonine  head,  a  leonine  face,  a  rough  voice,  and  an 
eye  which  was  sometimes  a  pirate's  and  sometimes  a 
woman's,  according  to  the  mood.  He  knew  nothing 
about  etiquette,  and  cared  nothing  about  it;  in 
speech,  manner,  carriage,  and  conduct  he  was  the. 
68 


WAS    IT    HEAVEN?    OR    HELL? 

reverse  of  conventional.  He  was  frank,  to  the  limit; 
he  had  opinions  on  all  subjects;  they  were  always  on 
tap  and  ready  for  delivery,  and  he  cared  not  a  far- 
thing whether  his  listener  liked  them  or  didn't. 
Whom  he  loved  he  loved,  and  manifested  it;  whom 
he  didn't  love  he  hated,  and  published  it  from  the 
housetops.  In  his  young  days  he  had  been  a  sailor, 
and  the  salt-airs  of  all  the  seas  blew  from  him  yet. 
He  was  a  sturdy  and  loyal  Christian,  and  believed 
he  was  the  best  one  in  the  land,  and  the  only  one 
whose  Christianity  was  perfectly  sound,  healthy, 
full-charged  with  common  sense,  and  had  no  decayed 
places  in  it.  People  who  had  an  ax  to  grind,  or 
people  who  for  any  reason  wanted  to  get  on  the  soft 
side  of  him,  called  him  The  Christian  —  a  phrase 
whose  delicate  flattery  was  music  to  his  ears,  and 
whose  capital  T  was  such  an  enchanting  and  vivid 
object  to  him  that  he  could  see  it  when  it  fell  out  of 
a  person's  mouth  even  in  the  dark.  Many  who  were 
fond  of  him  stood  on  their  consciences  with  both  feet 
and  brazenly  called  him  by  that  large  title  habitually, 
because  it  was  a  pleasure  to  them  to  do  anything 
that  would  please  him;  and  with  eager  and  cordial 
malice  his  extensive  and  diligently  cultivated  crop 
of  enemies  gilded  it,  beflowered  it,  expanded  it  to 
"The  Only  Christian."  Of  these  two  titles,  the 
latter  had  the  wider  currency;  the  enemy,  being 
greatly  in  the  majority,  attended  to  that.  Whatever 
the  doctor  believed,  he  believed  with  all  his  heart, 
and  would  fight  for  it  whenever  he  got  the  chance; 
and  if  the  intervals  between  chances  grew  to  be  irk- 
somely wide,  he  would  invent  ways  of  shortening 
69 


MARK    TWAIN 

them  himself.  He  was  severely  conscientious,  ac- 
cording to  his  rather  independent  lights,  and  what- 
ever he  took  to  be  a  duty  he  performed,  no  matter 
whether  the  judgment  of  the  professional  moralists 
agreed  with  his  own  or  not.  At  sea,  in  his  young 
days,  he  had  used  profanity  freely,  but  as  soon  as  he 
was  converted  he  made  a  rule,  which  he  rigidly  stuck 
to  ever  afterward,  never  to  use  it  except  on  the 
rarest  occasions,  and  then  only  when  duty  com- 
manded. He  had  been  a  hard  drinker  at  sea,  but 
after  his  conversion  he  became  a  firm  and  out- 
spoken teetotaler,  in  order  to  be  an  example  to 
the  young,  and  from  that  time  forth  he  seldom 
drank;  never,  indeed,  except  when  it  seemed  to 
him  to  be  a  duty — a  condition  which  sometimes 
occurred  a  couple  of  times  a  year,  but  never  as 
many  as  five  times. 

Necessarily,  such  a  man  is  impressionable,  impul- 
sive, emotional.  This  one  was,  and  had  no  gift  at 
hiding  his  feelings;  or  if  he  had  it  he  took  no  trouble 
to  exercise  it.  He  carried  his  soul's  prevailing 
weather  in  his  face,  and  when  he  entered  a  room  the 
parasols  or  the  umbrellas  went  up — figuratively 
speaking — according  to  the  indications.  When  the 
soft  light  was  in  his  eye  it  meant  approval,  and  de- 
livered a  benediction;  when  he  came  with  a  frown 
he  lowered  the  temperature  ten  degrees.  He  was  a 
well-beloved  man  in  the  house  of  his  friends,  but 
sometimes  a  dreaded  one. 

He  had  a  deep  affection  for  the  Lester  household, 
and  its  several  members  returned  this  feeling  with 
interest.  They  mourned  over  his  kind  of  Chris- 
70 


WAS    IT    HEAVEN?    OR    HELL? 

tianity,  and  he  frankly  scoffed  at  theirs;  but  both 
parties  went  on  loving  each  other  just  the  same. 

He  was  approaching  the  house — out  of  the  dis- 
tance; the  aunts  and  the  culprit  were  moving  to- 
ward the  sick-chamber. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  three  last  named  stood  by  the  bed;  the  aunts! 
austere,  the  transgressor  softly  sobbing.  The 
mother  turned  her  head  on  the  pillow;  her  tired 
eyes  flamed  up  instantly  with  sympathy  and  pas- 
sionate mother-love  when  they  fell  upon  her  child, 
and  she  opened  the  refuge  and  shelter  of  her  arms. 

"Wait!"  said  Aunt  Hannah,  and  put  out  her  hand 
and  stayed  the  girl  from  leaping  into  them. 

"Helen,"  said  the  other  aunt,  impressively,  "tell 
your  mother  all.  Purge  your  soul;  leave  nothing 
unconfessed." 

Standing  stricken  and  forlorn  before  her  judges, 
the  young  girl  mourned  her  sorrowful  tale  through 
to  the  end,  then  in  a  passion  of  appeal  cried  out: 

"Oh,  mother,  can't  you  forgive  me?  won't  you 
forgive  me? — I  am  so  desolate!" 

' '  Forgive  you,  my  darling  ?  Oh,  come  to  my  arms ! 
— there,  lay  your  head  upon  my  breast,  and  be  at 
peace.  If  you  had  told  a  thousand  lies — " 

There  was  a  sound — a  warning — the  clearing  of  a 
throat.  The  aunts  glanced  up,  and  withered  in  their 
clothes — there  stood  the  doctor,  his  face  a  thun- 
der-cloud. Mother  and  child  knew  nothing  of  his 
presence;  they  lay  locked  together,  heart  to  heart, 
steeped  in  immeasurable  content,  dead  to  all  things 
72 


WAS    IT    HEAVEN?    OR    HELL? 

else.  The  physician  stood  many  moments  glaring 
and  glooming  upon  the  scene  before  him ;  studying  it, 
analyzing  it,  searching  out  its  genesis;  then  he  put 
up  his  hand  and  beckoned  to  the  aunts.  They  came 
trembling  to  him,  and  stood  humbly  before  him  and 
waited.  He  bent  down  and  whispered: 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  this  patient  must  be  protected 
from  all  excitement?  What  the  hell  have  you  been 
doing?  Clear  out  of  the  place!" 

They  obeyed.  Half  an  hour  later  he  appeared  in 
the  parlor,  serene,  cheery,  clothed  in  sunshine,  con- 
ducting Helen,  with  his  arm  about  her  waist,  pet- 
ting her,  and  saying  gentle  and  playful  things  to 
her;  and  she  also  was  her  sunny  and  happy  self 
again. 

"Now,  then,"  he  said,  "good -by,  dear.  Go  to 
your  room,  and  keep  away  from  your  mother,  and 
behave  yourself.  But  wait — put  out  your  tongue. 
There,  that  will  do — you're  as  sound  as  a  nut!"  He 
patted  her  cheek  and  added,  "Run  along  now;  I 
want  to  talk  to  these  aunts." 

She  went  from  the  presence.  His  face  clouded 
over  again  at  once;  and  as  he  sat  down  he  said: 

"You  two  have  been  doing  a  lot  of  damage — and 
maybe  some  good.  Some  good,  yes — such  as  it  is. 
That  woman's  disease  is  typhoid!  You've  brought 
it  to  a  show-up,  I  think,  with  your  insanities,  and 
that's  a  service — such  as  it  is.  I  hadn't  been  able  to 
determine  what  it  was  before." 

With  one  impulse  the  old  ladies  sprang  to  their 
feet,  quaking  with  terror. 

"Sit  down!    What  are  you  proposing  to  do?" 
73 


MARK    TWAIN 

"Do?    We  must  fly  to  her.    We—" 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind;  you've  done 
enough  harm  for  one  day.  Do  you  want  to  squander 
all  your  capital  of  crimes  and  follies  on  a  single  deal? 
Sit  down,  I  tell  you.  I  have  arranged  for  her  to 
sleep;  she  needs  it;  if  you  disturb  her  without  my 
orders,  I'll  brain  you — if  you've  got  the  materials 
for  it." 

They  sat  down,  distressed  and  indignant,  but  obe- 
dient, under  compulsion.  He  proceeded: 

"Now,  then,  I  want  this  case  explained.  They 
wanted  to  explain  it  to  me — as  if  there  hadn't  been 
emotion  and  excitement  enough  already.  You  knew 
my  orders ;  how  did  you  dare  to  go  in  there  and  get 
up  that  riot?" 

Hester  looked  appealingly  at  Hannah;  Hannah 
returned  a  beseeching  look  at  Hester — neither  wanted 
to  dance  to  this  unsympathetic  orchestra.  The  doc- 
tor came  to  their  help.  He  said: 

"Begin,  Hester." 

Fingering  at  the  fringes  of  her  shawl,  and  with 
lowered  eyes,  Hester  said,  timidly: 

"We  should  not  have  disobeyed  for  any  ordinary 
cause,  but  this  was  vital.  This  was  a  duty.  With  a 
duty  one  has  no  choice ;  one  must  put  all  lighter  con- 
siderations aside  and  perform  it.  We  were  obliged 
to  arraign  her  before  her  mother.  She  had  told  a 
He." 

The  doctor  glowered  upon  the  woman  a  moment, 
and  seemed  to  be  trying  to  work  up  in  his  mind  an 
understanding  of  a  wholly  incomprehensible  proposi- 
tion; then  he  stormed  out: 
74 


WAS    IT    HEAVEN?    OR    HELL? 

"She  told  a  He!  Did  she?  God  bless  my  soul!  I 
tell  a  million  a  day!  And  so  does  every  doctor.  And 
so  does  everybody — including  you — for  that  matter. 
And  that  was  the  important  thing  that  authorized 
you  to  venture  to  disobey  my  orders  and  imperil 
that  woman's  life!  Look  here,  Hester  Gray,  this  is 
pure  lunacy;  that  girl  couldn't  tell  a  lie  that  was  in- 
tended to  injure  a  person.  The  thing  is  impossible 
— absolutely  impossible.  You  know  it  yourselves — 
both  of  you;  you  know  it  perfectly  well." 

Hannah  came  to  her  sister's  rescue: 

"Hester  didn't  mean  that  it  was  that  kind  of  a 
lie,  and  it  wasn't.  But  it  was  a  lie." 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  I  never  heard  such  non- 
sense! Haven't  you  got  sense  enough  to  discrimi- 
nate between  lies?  Don't  you  know  the  difference 
between  a  lie  that  helps  and  a  lie  that  hurts?" 

"All  lies  are  sinful,"  said  Hannah,  setting  her  lips 
together  like  a  vise;  "all  lies  are  forbidden." 

The  Only  Christian  fidgeted  impatiently  in  his 
chair.  He  wanted  to  attack  this  proposition,  but  he 
did  not  quite  know  how  or  where  to  begin.  Finally 
he  made  a  venture: 

' '  Hester,  wouldn't  you  tell  a  lie  to  shield  a  person 
from  an  undeserved  injury  or  shame?" 

"No." 

"Not  even  a  friend?" 

"No." 

"Not  even  your  dearest  friend?" 

"No.     I  would  not." 

The  doctor  struggled  in  silence  awhile  with  this 
situation,  then  he  asked: 
75 


MARK    TWAIN 

"Not  even  to  save  him  from  bitter  pain  and 
misery  and  grief?" 

"No.     Not  even  to  save  his  life." 

Another  pause.     Then : 

"Nor  his  soul?" 

There  was  a  hush — a  silence  which  endured  a 
measurable  interval — then  Hester  answered,  in  a 
low  voice,  but  with  decision: 

"Nor  his  soul?" 

No  one  spoke  for  a  while;  then  the  doctor  said: 

"Is  it  with  you  the  same,  Hannah?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"I  ask  you  both — why?" 

"Because  to  tell  such  a  lie,  or  any  lie,  is  a  sin,  and 
could  cost  us  the  loss  of  our  own  souls — would,  in- 
deed, if  we  died  without  time  to  repent." 

"Strange  .  .  .  strange  ...  it  is  past  belief."  Then 
he  asked,  roughly:  "Is  such  a  soul  as  that  worth  sav- 
ing?" He  rose  up,  mumbling  and  grumbling,  and 
started  for  the  door,  stumping  vigorously  along.  At 
the  threshold  he  turned  and  rasped  out  an  admoni- 
tion: "Reform!  Drop  this  mean  and  sordid  and 
selfish  devotion  to  the  saving  of  your  shabby  little 
souls,  and  hunt  up  something  to  do  that's  got  some 
dignity  to  it!  Risk  your  souls!  risk  them  in  good 
causes;  then  if  you  lose  them,  why  should  you  care? 
Reform!" 

The  good  old  gentlewomen  sat  paralyzed,  pul- 
verized, outraged,  insulted,  and  brooded  in  bitter- 
ness and  indignation  over  these  blasphemies.  They 
were  hurt  to  the  heart,  poor  old  ladies,  and  said  they 
could  never  forgive  these  injuries. 
76 


WAS    IT    HEAVEN?    OR    HELL? 

"Reform!" 

They  kept  repeating  that  word  resentfully.  "Re- 
form— and  learn  to  tell  lies!" 

Time  slipped  along,  and  in  due  course  a  change 
came  over  their  spirits.  They  had  completed  the 
human  being's  first  duty — which  is  to  think  about 
himself  until  he  has  exhausted  the  subject,  then  he 
is  in  a  condition  to  take  up  minor  interests  and 
think  of  other  people.  This  changes  the  complexion 
of  his  spirits — generally  wholesomely.  The  minds  of 
the  two  old  ladies  reverted  to  their  beloved  niece  and 
the  fearful  disease  which  had  smitten  her;  instantly 
they  forgot  the  hurts  their  self-love  had  received,  and 
a  passionate  desire  rose  in  their  hearts  to  go  to  the 
help  of  the  sufferer  and  comfort  her  with  their  love, 
and  minister  to  her,  and  labor  for  her  the  best  they 
could  with  their  weak  hands,  and  joyfully  and  affec- 
tionately wear  out  their  poor  old  bodies  in  her  dear 
service  if  only  they  might  have  the  privilege. 

"And  we  shall  have  it!"  said  Hester,  with  the 
tears  running  down  her  face.  "There  are  no  nurses 
comparable  to  us,  for  there  are  no  others  that  will 
stand  their  watch  by  that  bed  till  they  drop  and  die, 
and  God  knows  we  would  do  that." 

"Amen,"  said  Hannah,  smiling  approval  and  in- 
dorsement through  the  mist  of  moisture  that  blurred 
her  glasses.  "The  doctor  knows  us,  and  knows  we 
will  not  disobey  again;  and  he  will  call  no  others. 
He  will  not  dare!" 

"Dare?"  said  Hester,  with  temper,  and  dashing 
the  water  from  her  eyes;  "he  will  dare  anything — 
that  Christian  devil !  But  it  will  do  no  good  for  him 
77 


MARK    TWAIN 

to  try  it  this  time— but,  laws!  Hannah!  after  all's 
said  and  done,  he  is  gifted  and  wise  and  good,  and 
he  would  not  think  of  such  a  thing.  ...  It  is  surely 
time  for  one  of  us  to  go  to  that  room.  What  is 
keeping  him?  Why  doesn't  he  come  and  say  so?" 
They  caught  the  sound  of  his  approaching  step. 
He  entered,  sat  down,  and  began  to  talk. 

"Margaret  is  a  sick  woman,"  he  said.  "She  is 
still  sleeping,  but  she  will  wake  presently;  then  one 
of  you  must  go  to  her.  She  will  be  worse  before  she 
is  better.  Pretty  soon  a  night-and-day  watch  must 
be  set.  How  much  of  it  can  you  two  undertake?" 

"All  of  it!"  burst  from  both  ladies  at  once. 

The  doctor's  eyes  flashed,  and  he  said,  with  energy : 

"You  do  ring  true,  you  brave  old  relics !  And  you 
shall  do  all  of  the  nursing  you  can,  for  there's  none 
to  match  you  in  that  divine  office  in  this  town ;  but 
you  can't  do  all  of  it,  and  it  would  be  a  crime  to  let 
you."  It  was  grand  praise,  golden  praise,  coming 
from  such  a  source,  and  it  took  nearly  all  the  resent- 
ment out  of  the  aged  twin's  hearts.  "Your  Tilly 
and  my  old  Nancy  shall  do  the  rest — good  nurses 
both,  white  souls  with  black  skins,  watchful,  loving, 
tender — just  perfect  nurses! — and  competent  liars 
from  the  cradle.  .  .  .  Look  you!  keep  a  little  watch 
on  Helen;  she  is  sick,  and  is  going  to  be  sicker." 

The  ladies  looked  a  little  surprised,  and  not  credu- 
lous; and  Hester  said: 

"How  is  that?  It  isn't  an  hour  since  you  said  she 
was  as  sound  as  a  nut." 

The  doctor  answered,  tranquilly: 

"It  was  a  lie." 

78 


WAS    IT    HEAVEN?    OR    HELL? 

The  ladies  turned  upon  him  indignantly,  and 
Hannah  said : 

"How  can  you  make  an  odious  confession  like 
that,  in  so  indifferent  a  tone,  when  you  know  how 
we  feel  about  all  forms  of — " 

4 '  Hush  I  You  are  as  ignorant  as  cats,  both  of  you, 
and  you  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about. 
You  are  like  all  the  rest  of  the  moral  moles;  you  lie 
from  morning  till  night,  but  because  you  don't  do  it 
with  your  mouths,  but  only  with  your  lying  eyes, 
your  lying  inflections,  your  deceptively  misplaced 
emphasis,  and  your  misleading  gestures,  you  turn  up 
your  complacent  noses  and  parade  before  God  and 
the  world  as  saintly  and  unsmirched  Truth-Speakers, 
in  whose  cold-storage  souls  a  lie  would  freeze  to 
death  if  it  got  there!  Why  will  you  humbug  your- 
selves with  that  foolish  notion  that  no  lie  is  a  lie  ex- 
cept a  spoken  one?  What  is  the  difference  between 
lying  with  your  eyes  and  lying  with  your  mouth? 
There  is  none;  and  if  you  would  reflect  a  moment 
you  would  see  that  it  is  so.  There  isn't  a  human 
being  that  doesn't  tell  a  gross  of  lies  every  day  of 
his  life;  and  you — why,  between  you,  you  tell  thirty 
thousand ;  yet  you  flare  up  here  in  a  lurid  hypocritical 
horror  because  I  tell  that  child  a  benevolent  and  sin- 
less lie  to  protect  her  from  her  imagination,  which 
would  get  to  work  and  warm  up  her  blood  to  a  fever 
in  an  hour,  if  I  were  disloyal  enough  to  my  duty  to 
let  it.  Which  I  should  probably  do  if  I  were  in- 
terested in  saving  my  soul  by  such  disreputable 
means. 

"Come,  let  us  reason  together.  Let  us  examine 
79 


MARK    TWAIN 

details.  When  you  two  were  in  the  sick-room  raising 
that  riot,  what  would  you  have  done  if  you  had 
known  I  was  coming?" 

"Well,  what?" 

"You  would  have  slipped  out  and  carried  Helen 
with  you — wouldn't  you?" 

The  ladies  were  silent. 

"What  would  be  your  object  and  intention?" 

"Well,  what?" 

"To  keep  me  from  finding  out  your  guilt;  to  be- 
guile me  to  infer  that  Margaret's  excitement  pro- 
ceeded from  some  cause  not  known  to  you.  In  a 
word,  to  tell  me  a  lie — a  silent  lie.  Moreover,  a 
possibly  harmful  one." 

The  twins  colored,  but  did  not  speak. 

"You  not  only  tell  myriads  of  silent  lies,  but  you 
tell  lies  with  your  mouths — you  two." 

"That  is  not  so!" 

"It  is  so.  But  only  harmless  ones.  You  never 
dream  of  uttering  a  harmful  one.  Do  you  know  that 
that  is  a  concession — and  a  confession?" 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"It  is  an  unconscious  concession  that  harmless  lies 
are  not  criminal;  it  is  a  confession  that  you  con- 
stantly make  that  discrimination.  For  instance,  you 
declined  old  Mrs.  Foster's  invitation  last  week  to 
meet  those  odious  Higbies  at  supper — in  a  polite  note 
in  which  you  expressed  regret  and  said  you  were  very 
sorry  you  could  not  go.  It  was  a  lie.  It  was  as 
unmitigated  a  lie  as  was  ever  uttered.  Deny  it, 
Hester — with  another  lie." 

Hester  replied  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 
80 


WAS    IT    HEAVEN?    OR    HELL? 

"That  will  not  do.  Answer.  Was  it  a  lie,  or 
wasn't  it?" 

The  color  stole  into  the  cheeks  of  both  women, 
and  with  a  struggle  and  an  effort  they  got  out  their 
confession : 

"It  was  a  He." 

"Good — the  reform  is  beginning;  there  is  hope  for 
you  yet;  you  will  not  tell  a  lie  to  save  your  dearest 
friend's  soul,  but  you  will  spew  out  one  without  a 
scruple  to  save  yourself  the  discomfort  of  telling  an 
unpleasant  truth." 

He  rose.    Hester,  speaking  for  both,  said,  coldly: 

"We  have  lied;  we  perceive  it;  it  will  occur  no 
more.  To  lie  is  a  sin.  We  shall  never  tell  another 
one  of  any  kind  whatsoever,  even  lies  of  courtesy 
or  benevolence,  to  save  any  one  a  pang  or  a  sorrow 
decreed  for  him  by  God." 

"Ah,  how  soon  you  will  fall!  In  fact,  you  have 
fallen  already;  for  what  you  have  just  uttered  is 
a  lie.  Good-by.  Reform!  One  of  you  go  to  the 
sick-room  now." 


CHAPTER  IV 

TWELVE  days  later. 
Mother  and  child  were  lingering  in  the  grip  of 
the  hideous  disease.  Of  hope  for  either  there  was  lit- 
tle. The  aged  sisters  looked  white  and  worn,  but 
they  would  not  give  up  their  posts.  Their  hearts 
were  breaking,  poor  old  things,  but  their  grit  was 
steadfast  and  indestructible.  All  the  twelve  days  the 
mother  had  pined  for  the  child,  and  the  child  for  the 
mother,  but  both  knew  that  the  prayer  of  these 
longings  could  not  be  granted.  When  the  mother 
was  told — on  the  first  day — that  her  disease  was 
typhoid,  she  was  frightened,  and  asked  if  there  was 
danger  that  Helen  could  have  contracted  it  the  day 
before,  when  she  was  in  the  sick-chamber  on  that 
confession  visit.  Hester  told  her  the  doctor  had 
poo-pooed  the  idea.  It  troubled  Hester  to  say  it, 
although  it  was  true,  for  she  had  not  believed  the 
doctor;  but  when  she  saw  the  mother's  joy  in  the 
news,  the  pain  in  her  conscience  lost  something  of  its 
force — a  result  which  made  her  ashamed  of  the  con- 
structive deception  which  she  had  practised,  though 
not  ashamed  enough  to  make  her  distinctly  and 
definitely  wish  she  had  refrained  from  it.  From 
that  moment  the  sick  woman  understood  that  her 
daughter  must  remain  away,  and  she  said  she  would 
82 


WAS    IT    HEAVEN?    OR    HELL? 

reconcile  herself  to  the  separation  the  best  she  could, 
for  she  would  rather  suffer  death  than  have  her 
child's  health  imperiled.  That  afternoon  Helen  had 
to  take  to  her  bed,  ill.  She  grew  worse  during  the 
night.  In  the  morning  her  mother  asked  after 
her: 

"Is  she  well?" 

Hester  turned  cold;  she  opened  her  lips,  but  the 
words  refused  to  come.  The  mother  lay  languidly 
looking,  musing,  waiting;  suddenly  she  turned  white 
and  gasped  out: 

"Oh,  my  God!  what  is  it?  is  she  sick?" 

Then  the  poor  aunt's  tortured  heart  rose  in  re- 
bellion, and  words  came: 

"No— be  comforted;   she  is  well." 

The  sick  woman  put  all  her  happy  heart  in  her 
gratitude : 

"Thank  God  for  those  dear  words!  Kiss  me. 
How  I  worship  you  for  saying  them!" 

Hester  told  this  incident  to  Hannah,  who  received 
it  with  a  rebuking  look,  and  said,  coldly: 

"Sister,  it  was  a  lie." 

Hester's  lips  trembled  piteously ;  she  choked  down 
a  sob,  and  said : 

"Oh,  Hannah,  it  was  a  sin,  but  I  could  not  help  it. 
I  could  not  endure  the  fright  and  the  misery  that 
were  in  her  face." 

"No  matter.  It  was  a  lie.  God  will  hold  you  to 
account  for  it." 

"Oh,  I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  cried  Hester,  wringing 
her  hands,  "but  even  if  it  were  now,  I  could  not  help 
it.     I  know  I  should  do  it  again." 
83 


MARK    TWAIN 

"Then  take  my  place  with  Helen  in  the  morning. 
I  will  make  the  report  myself." 

Hester  clung  to  her  sister,  begging  and  imploring. 

"Don't,  Hannah,  oh,  don't — you  will  kill  her." 

"I  will  at  least  "speak  the  truth." 

In  the  morning  she  had  a  cruel  report  to  bear  to 
the  mother,  and  she  braced  herself  for  the  trial. 
When  she  returned  from  her  mission,  Hester  was 
waiting,  pale  and  trembling,  in  the  hall.  She  whis- 
pered : 

"Oh,  how  did  she  take  it — that  poor,  desolate 
mother?" 

Hannah's  eyes  were  swimming  in  tears.     She  said : 

"God  forgive  me,  I  told  her  the  child  was  well!" 

Hester  gathered  her  to  her  heart,  with  a  grateful 
"God  bless  you,  Hannah !"  and  poured  out  her  thank- 
fulness in  an  inundation  of  worshiping  praises. 

After  that,  the  two  knew  the  limit  of  their  strength, 
and  accepted  their  fate.  They  surrendered  hum- 
bly, and  abandoned  themselves  to  the  hard  require- 
ments of  the  situation.  Daily  they  told  the  morning 
lie,  and  confessed  their  sin  in  prayer;  not  asking  for- 
giveness, as  not  being  worthy  of  it,  but  only  wish- 
ing to  make  record  that  they  realized  their  wicked- 
ness and  were  not  desiring  to  hide  it  or  excuse  it. 

Daily,  as  the  fair  young  idol  of  the  house  sank 
lower  and  lower,  the  sorrowful  old  aunts  painted  her 
glowing  bloom  and  her  fresh  young  beauty  to  the 
wan  mother,  and  winced  under  the  stabs  her  ec- 
stasies of  joy  and  gratitude  gave  them. 

In  the  first  days,  while  the  child  had  strength  to 
hold  a  pencil,  she  wrote  fond  little  love-notes  to  her 
84 


WAS    IT   HEAVEN?   OR   HELL? 

mother,  in  which  she  concealed  her  illness;  and  these 
the  mother  read  and  reread  through  happy  eyes  wet 
with  thankful  tears,  and  kissed  them  over  and  over 
again,  and  treasured  them  as  precious  things  under 
her  pillow. 

Then  came  a  day  when  the  strength  was  gone  from 
the  hand,  and  the  mind  wandered,  and  the  tongue 
babbled  pathetic  incoherences.  This  was  a  sore  di- 
lemma for  the  poor  aunts.  There  were  no  love-notes 
for  the  mother.  They  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
Hester  began  a  carefully  studied  and  plausible  ex- 
planation, but  lost  the  track  of  it  and  grew  confused; 
suspicion  began  to  show  in  the  mother's  face,  then 
alarm.  Hester  saw  it,  recognized  the  imminence  of 
the  danger,  and  descended  to  the  emergency,  pulling 
herself  resolutely  together  and  plucking  victory  from 
the  open  jaws  of  defeat.  In  a  placid  and  convincing 
voice  she  said: 

"I  thought  it  might  distress  you  to  know  it,  but 
Helen  spent  the  night  at  the  Sloanes*.  There  was  a 
little  party  there,  and,  although  she  did  not  want  to 
go,  and  you  so  sick,  we  persuaded  her,  she  being 
young  and  needing  the  innocent  pastimes  of  youth, 
and  we  believing  you  would  approve.  Be  sure  she 
will  write  the  moment  she  comes." 

"How  good  you  are,  and  how  dear  and  thoughtful 
for  us  both!  Approve?  Why,  I  thank  you  with  all 
my  heart.  My  poor  little  exile !  Tell  her  I  want  her 
to  have  every  pleasure  she  can — I  would  not  rob  her 
of  one.  Only  let  her  keep  her  health,  that  is  all  I 
ask.  Don't  let  that  suffer;  I  could  not  bear  it. 
How  thankful  I  am  that  she  escaped  this  infection 
85 


MARK    TWAIN 

— and  what  a  narrow  risk  she  ran,  Aunt  Hester! 
Think  of  that  lovely  face  all  dulled  and  burned  with 
fever.  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  it.  Keep  her 
health.  Keep  her  bloom!  I  can  see  her  now,  the 
dainty  creature — with  the  big,  blue,  earnest  eyes; 
and  sweet,  oh,  so  sweet  and  gentle  and  winning! 
Is  she  as  beautiful  as  ever,  dear  Aunt  Hester?" 

' '  Oh,  more  beautiful  and  bright  and  charming  than 
ever  she  was  before,  if  such  a  thing  can  be" — and 
Hester  turned  away  and  fumbled  with  the  medicine- 
bottles,  to  hide  her  shame  and  grief. 


CHAPTER  V 

ATER  a  little,  both  aunts  were  laboring  upon  a' 
difficult  and  baffling  work  in  Helen's  chamber. 
Patiently  and  earnestly,  with  their  stiff  old  fingers, 
they  were  trying  to  forge  the  required  note.  They 
made  failure  after  failure,  but  they  improved  little  by 
little  all  the  time.  The  pity  of  it  all,  the  pathetic 
humor  of  it,  there  was  none  to  see;  they  themselves 
were  unconscious  of  it.  Often  their  tears  fell  upon 
the  notes  and  spoiled  them;  sometimes  a  single  mis- 
formed  word  made  a  note  risky  which  could  have 
been  ventured  but  for  that;  but  at  last  Hannah  pro- 
duced one  whose  script  was  a  good  enough  imitation 
of  Helen's  to  pass  any  but  a  suspicious  eye,  and 
bountifully  enriched  it  with  the  petting  phrases  and 
loving  nicknames  that  had  been  familiar  on  the 
child's  lips  from  her  nursery  days.  She  carried  it  to 
the  mother,  who  took  it  with  avidity,  and  kissed  it, 
and  fondled  it,  reading  its  precious  words  over  and 
over  again,  and  dwelling  with  deep  contentment  upon 
its  closing  paragraph: 

"Mousie  darling,  if  I  could  only  see  you,  and  kiss 
your  eyes,  and  feel  your  arms  about  me!  I  am  so 
glad  my  practising  does  not  disturb  you.  Get  well 
soon.  Everybody  is  good  to  me,  but  I  am  so  lone- 
some without  you,  dear  mamma." 
87 


MARK    TWAIN 

"The  poor  child,  I  know  just  how  she  feels.  She 
cannot  be  quite  happy  without  me;  and  I — oh,  I  live 
in  the  light  of  her  eyes!  Tell  her  she  must  practise 
all  she  pleases;  and,  Aunt  Hannah — tell  her  I  can't 
hear  the  piano  this  far,  nor  her  dear  voice  when  she 
sings:  God  knows  I  wish  I  could.  No  one  knows 
how  sweet  that  voice  is  to  me;  and  to  think — 
some  day  it  will  be  silent!  What  are  you  crying 
for?" 

"Only  because — because — it  was  just  a  memory. 
When  I  came  away  she  was  singing,  'Loch  Lomond/ 
The  pathos  of  it !  It  always  moves  me  so  when  she 
sings  that." 

"And  me,  too.  How  heartbreakingly  beautiful  it 
is  when  some  youthful  sorrow  is  brooding  in  her 
breast  and  she  sings  it  for  the  mystic  healing  it 
brings.  .  .  .  Aunt  Hannah?" 

' '  Dear  Margaret  ?" 

"I  am  very  ill.  Sometimes  it  comes  over  me  that 
I  shall  never  hear  that  dear  voice  again." 

Oh,  don't — don't,  Margaret !     I  can't  bear  it !" 

Margaret  was  moved  and  distressed,  and  said, 
gently: 

"There  —  there  —  let  me  put  my  arms  around 
you.  Don't  cry.  There  — put  your  cheek  to 
mine.  Be  comforted.  I  wish  to  live.  I  will  live 
if  I  can.  Ah,  what  could  she  do  without  me!  ... 
Does  she  often  speak  of  me?  — but  I  know  she 
does." 

"Oh,  all  the  time— all  the  time!" 

My  sweet  child  I    She  wrote  the  note  the  moment 
she  came  home?" 

88 


WAS    IT    HEAVEN?    OR    HELL? 

"Yes — the  first  moment.  She  would  not  wait  to 
take  off  her  things." 

"I  knew  it.  It  is  her  dear,  impulsive,  affectionate 
way.  I  knew  it  without  asking,  but  I  wanted  to  hear 
you  say  it.  The  petted  wife  knows  she  is  loved,  but 
she  makes  her  husband  tell  her  so  every  day,  just  for 
the  joy  of  hearing  it.  ...  She  used  the  pen  this  time. 
That  is  better;  the  pencil-marks  could  rub  out,  and  I 
should  grieve  for  that.  Did  you  suggest  that  she  use 
the  pen?" 

"Y — no — she — it  was  her  own  idea," 

The  mother  looked  her  pleasure,  and  said: 

"I  was  hoping  you  would  say  that.  There  was 
never  such  a  dear  and  thoughtful  child!  .  .  .  Aunt 
Hannah?" 

"Dear  Margaret?" 

"Go  and  tell  her  I  think  of  her  all  the  time,  and 
worship  her.  Why — you  are  crying  again.  Don't 
be  so  worried  about  me,  dear;  I  think  there  is  noth- 
ing to  fear,  yet." 

The  grieving  messenger  carried  her  message,  and 
piously  delivered  it  to  unheeding  ears.  The  girl 
babbled  on  unaware;  looking  up  at  her  with  wonder- 
ing and  startled  eyes  flaming  with  fever,  eyes  in 
which  was  no  light  of  recognition : 

"Are  you — no,  you  are  not  my  mother.  I  want 
her — oh,  I  want  her!  She  was  here  a  minute  ago — I 
did  not  see  her  go.  Will  she  come?  will  she  come 
quickly?  will  she  come  now?  .  .  .  There  are  so  many 
houses  .  .  .  and  they  oppress  me  so  ...  and  every- 
thing whirls  and  turns  and  whirls  ...  oh,  my  head, 
my  head!" — and  so  she  wandered  on  and  on,  in  her 
89 


MARK    TWAIN 

pain,  flitting  from  one  torturing  fancy  to  another, 
and  tossing  her  arms  about  in  a  weary  and  ceaseless 
persecution  of  unrest. 

Poor  old  Hannah  wetted  the  parched  lips  and 
softly  stroked  the  hot  brow,  murmuring  endearing 
and  pitying  words,  and  thanking  the  Father  of  all 
that  the  mother  was  happy  and  did  not  know. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DAILY  the  child  sank  lower  and  steadily  lower 
towards  the  grave,  and  daily  the  sorrowing  old 
watchers  carried  gilded  tidings  of  her  radiant  health 
and  loveliness  to  the  happy  mother,  whose  pilgrimage 
was  also  now  nearing  its  end.  And  daily  they  forged 
loving  and  cheery  notes  in  the  child's  hand,  and  stood 
by  with  remorseful  consciences  and  bleeding  hearts, 
and  wept  to  see  the  grateful  mother  devour  them  and 
adore  them  and  treasure  them  away  as  things  beyond 
price,  because  of  their  sweet  source,  and  sacred  be- 
cause her  child's  hand  had  touched  them. 

At  last  came  that  kindly  friend  who  brings  healing 
and  peace  to  all.  The  lights  were  burning  low.  In 
the  solemn  hush  which  precedes  the  dawn  vague 
figures  flitted  soundless  along  the  dim  hall  and  gath- 
ered silent  and  awed  in  Helen's  chamber,  and  grouped 
themselves  about  her  bed,  for  a  warning  had  gone 
forth,  and  they  knew.  The  dying  girl  lay  with 
closed  lids,  and  unconscious,  the  drapery  upon  her 
breast  faintly  rising  and  falling  as  her  wasting  life 
ebbed  away.  At  intervals  a  sigh  or  a  muffled  sob 
broke  upon  the  stillness.  The  same  haunting 
thought  was  in  all  minds  there :  the  pity  of  this  death, 
the  going  out  into  the  great  darkness,  and  the  mother 
not  here  to  help  and  hearten  and  bless. 
91 


MARK    TWAIN 

Helen  stirred;  her  hands  began  to  grope  wistfully 
about  as  if  they  sought  something — she  had  been 
blind  some  hours.  The  end  was  come;  all  knew  it. 
With  a  great  sob  Hester  gathered  her  to  her  breast, 
crying,  "Oh,  my  child,  my  darling!"  A  rapturous 
light  broke  in  the  dying  girl's  face,  for  it  was  merci- 
fully vouchsafed  her  to  mistake  those  sheltering  arms 
for  another's;  and  she  went  to  her  rest  murmuring, 
"Oh,  mamma,  I  am  so  happy — I  so  longed  for  you — 
now  I  can  die." 

Two  hours  later  Hester  made  her  report.  The 
mother  asked. 

"How  is  it  with  the  child?" 
"She  is  well." 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  SHEAF  of  white  crape  and  black  was  hung  upon 
/~\  the  door  of  the  house,  and  there  it  swayed  and 
rustled  in  the  wind  and  whispered  its  tidings.  At 
noon  the  preparation  of  the  dead  was  finished,  and 
in  the  coffin  lay  the  fair  young  form,  beautiful,  and 
in  the  sweet  face  a  great  peace.  Two  mourners  sat 
by  it,  grieving  and  worshiping — Hannah  and  the 
black  woman  Tilly.  Hester  came,  and  she  was  trem- 
bling, for  a  great  trouble  was  upon  her  spirit.  She 
said: 

"She  asks  for  a  note." 

Hannah's  face  blanched.  She  had  not  thought  of 
this;  it  had  seemed  that  that  pathetic  service  was 
ended.  But  she  realized  now  that  that  could  not  be. 
For  a  little  while  the  two  women  stood  looking  into 
each  other's  face,  with  vacant  eyes;  then  Hannah 
said: 

"There  is  no  way  out  of  it — she  must  have  it;  she 
will  suspect,  else." 

"And  she  would  find  out." 

"Yes.  It  would  break  her  heart."  She  looked 
at  the  dead  face,  and  her  eyes  filled.  "I  will  write 
it,"  she  said. 

Hester  carried  it.    The  closing  line  said : 

"Darling  Mousie,  dear  sweet  mother,  we  shall  soon 
93 


MARK     TWAIN 

be  together  again.  Is  not  that  good  news?  And  it 
is  true;  they  all  say  it  is  true." 

The  mother  mourned,  saying: 

"Poor  child,  how  will  she  bear  it  when  she  knows? 
I  shall  never  see  her  again  in  life.  It  is  hard,  so 
hard.  She  does  not  suspect?  You  guard  her  from 
that?" 

"She  thinks  you  will  soon  be  well." 

"How  good  you  are,  and  careful,  dear  Aunt 
Hester!  None  goes  near  her  who  could  carry  the 
infection?" 

"It  would  be  a  crime." 

"But  you  see  her?" 

"With  a  distance  between — yes." 

"That  is  so  good.  Others  one  could  not  trust; 
but  you  two  guardian  angels — steel  is  not  so  true 
as  you.  Others  would  be  unfaithful;  and  many 
would  deceive,  and  lie." 

Hester's  eyes  fell,  and  her  poor  old  lips  trembled. 

"Let  me  kiss  you  for  her,  Aunt  Hester;  and  when 
I  am  gone,  and  the  danger  is  past,  place  the  kiss  upon 
her  dear  lips  some  day,  and  say  her  mother  sent  it, 
and  all  her  mother's  broken  heart  is  in  it." 

Within  the  hour,  Hester,  raining  tears  upon  the 
dead  face,  performed  her  pathetic  mission. 

94 


CHAPTER 

A  NOTHER  day  dawned,  and  grew,  and  spread  its 
jT\  siuishine  in  the  earth.  Aunt  Hannah  brought 
comforting  news  to  the  failing  mother,  and  a  happy 
note,  which  said  again,  "We  have  but  a  little  time  to 
wait,  darling  mother,  then  we  shall  be  together." 

The  deep  note  of  a  bell  came  moaning  down  the 
wind. 

"Aunt  Hannah,  it  is  tolling.  Some  poor  soul  is  at 
rest.  As  I  shall  be  soon.  You  will  not  let  her  for- 
get me?" 

"Oh,  God  knows  she  never  will!" 

"Do  not  you  hear  strange  noises,  Aunt  Hannah? 
It  sounds  like  the  shuffling  of  many  feet." 

"We  hoped  you  would  not  hear  it,  dear.  It  is  a 
little  company  gathering,  for — for  Helen's  sake,  poor 
little  prisoner.  There  will  be  music — and  she  loves 
it  so.  We  thought  you  would  not  mind." 

"Mind?  Oh  no,  no — oh,  give  her  everything  her 
dear  heart  can  desire.  How  good  you  two  are  to 
her,  and  how  good  to  me!  God  bless  you  both 
always!" 

After  a  listening  pause: 

"How  lovely!  It  is  her  organ.  Is  she  playing  it 
herself,  do  you  think?"  Faint  and  rich  and  inspiring 
the  chords  floated  to  her  ears  on  the  still  air.  "Yes, 
95 


MARK    TWAIN 

it  is  her  touch,  dear  heart,  I  recognize  it.  They  are 
singing.  Why — it  is  a  hymn!  and  the  sacredest  of 
all,  the  most  touching,  the  most  consoling.  ...  It 
seems  to  open  the  gates  of  paradise  to  me.  ...  If  I 
could  die  now.  ..." 
Faint  and  far  the  words  rose  out  of  the  stillness: 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee, 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me. 

With  the  closing  of  the  hymn  another  soul  passed 
to  its  rest,  and  they  that  had  been  one  in  life  were 
not  sundered  in  death.  The  sisters,  mourning  and 
rejoicing,  said: 

"How  blessed  it  was  that  she  never  knew!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

AT  midnight  they  sat  together,  grieving,  and  the 
angel  of  the  Lord  appeared  in  the  midst  trans- 
figured with  a  radiance  not  of  earth:  and  speaking, 
said: 

"For  liars  a  place  is  appointed.  There  they  burn 
in  the  fires  of  hell  from  everlasting  unto  everlasting. 
Repent!" 

The  bereaved  fell  upon  their  knees  before  him  and 
clasped  their  hands  and  bowed  their  gray  heads,' 
adoring.  But  their  tongues  clove  to  the  roof  of  their 
mouths,  and  they  were  dumb. 

"Speak!  that  I  may  bear  the  message  to  the 
chancery  of  heaven  and  bring  again  the  decree  from 
which  there  is  no  appeal." 

Then  they  bowed  their  heads  yet  lower,  and  one 
said: 

"Our  sin  is  great,  and  we  suffer  shame;  but  only 
perfect  and  final  repentance  can  make  us  whole;  and 
we  are  poor  creatures  who  have  learned  our  human 
weakness,  and  we  know  that  if  we  were  in  those 
hard  straits  again  our  hearts  would  fail  again,  and 
we  should  sin  as  before.  The  strong  could  prevail, 
and  so  be  saved,  but  we  are  lost." 

They  lifted  their  heads  in  supplication.    The  angel 
was  gone.     While  they  marveled  and  wept  he  came 
again;   and  bending  low,  he  whispered  the  decree. 
97 


CHAPTER  X 
WAS  it  Heaven?    Or  Hell? 


A   CURE    FOR   THE   BLUES 

BY  courtesy  of  Mr.  Cable  I  came  into  possession 
of  a  singular  book  eight  or  ten  years  ago.  It  is 
likely  that  mine  is  now  the  only  copy  in  existence. 
Its  title-page,  unabbreviated,  reads  as  follows: 

"The  Enemy  Conquered;  or,  Love  Triumphant. 
By  G.  Ragsdale  McClintock,1  author  of  'An  Address,' 
etc.,  delivered  at  Sunflower  Hill,  South  Carolina, 
and  member  of  the  Yale  Law  School.  New  Haven: 
published  by  T.  H.  Pease,  83  Chapel  Street,  1845." 

No  one  can  take  up  this  book  and  lay  it  down 
again  unread.  Whoever  reads  one  line  of  it  is 
caught,  is  chained;  he  has  become  the  contented 
slave  of  its  fascinations;  and  he  will  read  and  read, 
devour  and  devour,  and  will  not  let  it  go  out  of  his 
hand  till  it  is  finished  to  the  last  line,  though  the 
house  be  on  fire  over  his  head.  And  after  a  first 
reading  he  will  not  throw  it  aside,  but  will  keep  it  by 
him,  with  his  Shakespeare  and  his  Homer,  and  will 
take  it  up  many  and  many  a  time,  when  the  world  is 
dark  and  his  spirits  are  low,  and  be  straightway 
cheered  and  refreshed.  Yet  this  work  has  been 
allowed  to  lie  wholly  neglected,  unmentioned,  and 
apparently  unregretted,  for  nearly  half  a  century. 

1  The  name  here  given  is  a  substitute  for  the  one  actually  attached 
to  the  pamphlet. 

99 


MARK    TWAIN 

The  reader  must  not  imagine  that  he  is  to  find  in 
it  wisdom,  brilliancy,  fertility  of  invention,  ingenuity 
of  construction,  excellence  of  form,  purity  of  style, 
perfection  of  imagery,  truth  to  nature,  clearness  of 
statement,  humanly  possible  situations,  humanly  pos- 
sible people,  fluent  narrative,  connected  sequence 
of  events — or  philosophy,  or  logic,  or  sense.  No;  the 
rich,  deep,  beguiling  charm  of  the  book  lies  in  the 
total  and  miraculous  absence  from  it  of  all  these 
qualities — a  charm  which  is  completed  and  per- 
fected by  the  evident  fact  that  the  author,  whose 
naive  innocence  easily  and  surely  wins  our  regard, 
and  almost  our  worship,  does  not  know  that  they  are 
absent,  does  not  even  suspect  that  they  are  absent. 
When  read  by  the  light  of  these  helps  to  an  under- 
standing of  the  situation,  the  book  is  delicious — 
profoundly  and  satisfyingly  delicious. 

I  call  it  a  book  because  the  author  calls  it  a  book, 
I  call  it  a  work  because  he  calls  it  a  work;  but,  in 
truth,  it  is  merely  a  duodecimo  pamphlet  of  thirty- 
one  pages.  It  was  written  for  fame  and  money,  as 
the  author  very  frankly — yes,  and  very  hopefully, 
too,  poor  fellow — says  in  his  preface.  The  money 
never  came — no  penny  of  it  ever  came ;  and  how  long, 
how  pathetically  long,  the  fame  has  been  deferred — 
forty-seven  years!  He  was  young  then,  it  would 
have  been  so  much  to  him  then;  but  will  he  care  for 
it  now? 

As  time  is  measured  in  America,   McClintock's 

epoch  is  antiquity.     In  his  long-vanished  day  the 

Southern  author  had  a  passion  for  "eloquence";  it 

was  his  pet,  his  darling.    He  would  be  eloquent,  or 

100 


A    CURE    FOR    THE    BLUES 

perish.  And  he  recognized  only  one  kind  of  elo- 
quence— the  lurid,  the  tempestuous,  the  volcanic. 
He  liked  words — big  words,  fine  words,  grand  words, 
rumbling,  thundering,  reverberating  words;  with 
sense  attaching  if  it  could  be  got  in  without  marring 
the  sound,  but  not  otherwise.  He  loved  to  stand 
up  before  a  dazed  world,  and  pour  forth  flame  and 
smoke  and  lava  and  pumice-stone  into  the  skies,  and 
work  his  sub-terranean  thunders,  and  shake  himself 
with  earthquakes,  and  stench  himself  with  sulphur 
fumes.  If  he  consumed  his  own  fields  and  vineyards, 
that  was  a  pity,  yes;  but  he  would  have  his  eruption 
at  any  cost.  Mr.  McClintock's  eloquence — and  he 
is  always  eloquent,  his  crater  is  always  spouting — is 
of  the  pattern  common  to  his  day,  but  he  departs 
from  the  custom  of  the  time  in  one  respect:  his 
brethren  allowed  sense  to  intrude  when  it  did  not 
mar  the  sound,  but  he  does  not  allow  it  to  intrude 
at  all.  For  example,  consider  this  figure,  which  he 
uses  in  the  village  "Address"  referred  to  with  such 
candid  complacency  in  the  title-page  above  quoted 
— "like  the  topmost  topaz  of  an  ancient  tower." 
Please  read  it  again;  contemplate  it;  measure  it; 
walk  around  it;  climb  up  it;  try  to  get  at  an  ap- 
proximate realization  of  the  size  of  it.  Is  the  fellow 
to  that  to  be  found  in  literature,  ancient  or  modern, 
foreign  or  domestic,  living  or  dead,  drunk  or  sober? 
One  notices  how  fine  and  grand  it  sounds.  We  know 
that  if  it  was  loftily  uttered,  it  got  a  noble  burst  of 
applause  from  the  villagers;  yet  there  isn't  a  ray  of 
sense  in  it,  or  meaning  to  it. 

McClintock  finished   his  education   at  Yale  in 

iOI 


MARK     TWAIN 

1843,  and  came  to  Hartford  on  a  visit  that  same 
year.  I  have  talked  with  men  who  at  that  time 
talked  with  him,  and  felt  of  him,  and  knew  he  was 
real.  One  needs  to  remember  that  fact  and  to  keep 
fast  hold  of  it;  it  is  the  only  way  to  keepMcClin- 
tock's  book  from  undermining  one's  faith  in  Mc- 
Clintock's  actuality. 

As  to  the  book.  The  first  four  pages  are  devoted 
to  an  inflamed  eulogy  of  Woman — simply  Woman 
in  general,  or  perhaps  as  an  Institution — wherein, 
among  other  compliments  to  her  details,  he  pays  a 
unique  one  to  her  voice.  He  says  it  "fills  the  breast 
with  fond  alarms,  echoed  by  every  rill."  It  sounds 
well  enough,  but  it  is  not  true.  After  the  eulogy  he 
takes  up  his  real  work  and  the  novel  begins.  It 
begins  in  the  woods,  near  the  village  of  Sunflower 
Hill. 

Brightening  clouds  seemed  to  rise  from  the  mist  of  the  fair 
Chattahoochee,  to  spread  their  beauty  over  the  thick  forest,  to 
guide  the  hero  whose  bosom  beats  with  aspirations  to  conquer  the 
enemy  that  would  tarnish  his  name,  and  to  win  back  the  admira- 
tion of  his  long-tried  friend. 

It  seems  a  general  remark,  but  it  is  not  general; 
the  hero  mentioned  is  the  to-be  hero  of  the  book;  and 
in  this  abrupt  fashion,  and  without  name  or  descrip- 
tion, he  is  shoveled  into  the  tale.  "With  aspira- 
tions to  conquer  the  enemy  that  would  tarnish  his 
name"  is  merely  a  phrase  flung  in  for  the  sake  of 
the  sound — let  it  not  mislead  the  reader.  No  one 
is  trying  to  tarnish  this  person;  no  one  has  thought 
of  it.  The  rest  of  the  sentence  is  also  merely  a 
phrase;  the  man  has  no  friend  as  yet,  and  of  course 

103 


A    CURE    FOR    THE    BLUES 

has  had  no  chance  to  try  him,  or  win  back  his  ad- 
miration, or  disturb  him  in  any  other  way. 

The  hero  climbs  up  over  "Sawney's  Mountain/' 
and  down  the  other  side,  making  for  an  old  Indian 
"castle" — which  becomes  "the  red  man's  hut"  in 
the  next  sentence;  and  when  ne  gets  there  at  last, 
he  "surveys  with  wonder  and  astonishment"  the 
invisible  structure,  "which  time  had  buried  in  the 
dust,  and  thought  to  himself  his  happiness  was  not 
yet  complete."  One  doesn't  know  why  it  wasn't, 
nor  how  near  it  came  to  being  complete,  nor  what 
was  still  wanting  to  round  it  up  and  make  it  so. 
Maybe  it  was  the  Indian;  but  the  book  does  not  say. 
At  this  point  we  have  an  episode: 

Beside  the  shore  of  the  brook  sat  a  young  man,  about  eighteen 
or  twenty,  who  seemed  to  be  reading  some  favorite  book,  and 
who  had  a  remarkably  noble  countenance — eyes  which  betrayed 
more  than  a  common  mind.  This  of  course  made  the  youth  a 
welcome  guest,  and  gained  him  friends  in  whatever  condition  of 
life  he  might  be  placed.  The  traveler  observed  that  he  was  a 
well-built  figure  which  showed  strength  and  grace  in  every 
movement.  He  accordingly  addressed  him  in  quite  a  gentle- 
manly manner,  and  inquired  of  him  the  way  to  the  village. 
After  he  had  received  the  desired  information,  and  was  about 
taking  his  leave,  the  youth  said,  "Are  you  not  Major  Elfonzo, 
the  great  musician' — the  champion  of  a  noble  cause — the  modern 
Achilles,  who  gained  so  many  victories  in  the  Florida  War?" 
"I  bear  that  name,"  said  the  Major,  "and  those  titles,  trusting 
at  the  same  time  that  the  ministers  of  grace  will  carry  me 
triumphantly  through  all  my  laudable  undertakings,  and  if," 
continued  the  Major,  "you,  sir,  are  the  patronizer  of  noble 
deeds,  I  should  like  to  make  you  my  confidant  and  learn  your 
address."  The  youth  looked  somewhat  amazed,  bowed  low, 
mused  for  a  moment,  and  began:  " My  name  is  Roswell.  I  have 

1Further  on  it  will  be  seen  that  he  is  a  country  expert  on  the 
fiddle,  and  has  a  three-township  fame. 
103 


MARK    TWAIN 

been  recently  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  can  only  give  a  faint 
outline  of  my  future  success  in  that  honorable  profession;  but 
I  trust,  sir,  like  the  Eagle,  I  shall  look  down  from  lofty  rocks 
upon  the  dwellings  of  man,  and  shall  ever  be  ready  to  give  you 
any  assistance  in  my  official  capacity,  and  whatever  this  mus- 
cular arm  of  mine  can  do,  whenever  it  shall  be  called  from  its 
buried  greatness."  The  Major  grasped  him  by  the  hand,  and 
exclaimed:  "0!  thou  exalted  spirit  of  inspiration — thou  flame  of 
burning  prosperity,  may  the  Heaven-directed  blaze  be  the  glare 
of  thy  soul,  and  battle  down  every  rampart  that  seems  to  im- 
pede your  progress!" 

There  is  a  strange  sort  of  originality  about  Mc- 
Clintock;  he  imitates  other  people's  styles,  but 
nobody  can  imitate  his,  not  even  an  idiot.  Other 
people  can  be  windy,  but  McClintock  blows  a  gale; 
other  people  can  blubber  sentiment,  but  McClintock 
spews  it ;  other  people  can  mishandle  metaphors,  but 
only  McClintock  knows  how  to  make  a  business  of  it. 
McClintock  is  always  McClintock,  he  is  always  con- 
sistent, his  style  is  always  his  own  style.  He  does 
not  make  the  mistake  of  being  relevant  on  one  page 
and  irrelevant  on  another;  he  is  irrelevant  on  all  of 
them.  He  does  not  make  the  mistake  of  being  lucid 
in  one  place  and  obscure  in  another;  he  is  obscure  all 
the  time.  He  does  not  make  the  mistake  of  slipping 
in  a  name  here  and  there  that  is  out  of  character  with 
his  work;  he  always  uses  names  that  exactly  and  fan- 
tastically fit  his  lunatics.  In  the  matter  of  unde- 
viating  consistency  he  stands  alone  in  authorship. 
It  is  this  that  makes  his  style  unique,  and  entitles  it 
to  a  name  of  its  own — McClintockian.  It  is  this 
that  protects  it  from  being  mistaken  for  anybody 
else's.  Uncredited  quotations  from  other  writers 
often  leave  a  reader  in  doubt  as  to  their  authorship, 
104 


A    CURE    FOR    THE    BLUES 

but  McClintock  is  safe  from  that  accident;  an  un- 
credited  quotation  from  him  would  always  be  recog- 
nizable. When  a  boy  nineteen  years  old,  who  had 
just  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  says,  "I  trust,  sir, 
like  the  Eagle,  I  shall  look  down  from  lofty  rocks 
upon  the  dwellings  of  man,"  we  know  who  is  speaking 
through  that  boy;  we  should  recognize  that  note 
anywhere.  There  be  myriads  of  instruments  in  this 
world's  literary  orchestra,  and  a  multitudinous  con- 
fusion of  sounds  that  they  make,  wherein  fiddles  are 
drowned,  and  guitars  smothered,  and  one  sort  of 
drum  mistaken  for  another  sort;  but  whensoever  the 
brazen  note  of  the  McClintockian  trombone  breaks 
through  that  fog  of  music,  that  note  is  recognizable, 
and  about  it  there  can  be  no  blur  of  doubt. 

The  novel  now  arrives  at  the  point  where  the 
Major  goes  home  to  see  his  father.  When  McClin- 
tock wrote  this  interview  he  probably  believed  it 
was  pathetic. 

The  road  which  led  to  the  town  presented  many  attractions 
Elfonzo  had  bid  farewell  to  the  youth  of  deep  feeling,  and  was 
now  wending  his  way  to  the  dreaming  spot  of  his  fondness.  The 
south  winds  whistled  through  the  woods,  as  the  waters  dashed 
against  the  banks,  as  rapid  fire  in  the  pent  furnace  roars.  This 
brought  him  to  remember  while  alone,  that  he  quietly  left  behind 
the  hospitality  of  a  father's  house,  and  gladly  entered  the  world, 
with  higher  hopes  than  are  often  realized.  But  as  he  journeyed 
onward,  he  was  mindful  of  the  advice  of  his  father,  who  had 
often  looked  sadly  on  the  ground,  when  tears  of  cruelly  deceived 
hope  moistened  his  eyes.  Elfonzo  had  been  somewhat  of  a 
dutiful  son;  yet  fond  of  the  amusements  of  life — had  been  in 
distant  lands — had  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  the  world,  and  had 
frequently  returned  to  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood,  almost  desti- 
tute of  many  of  the  comforts  of  life.  In  this  condition,  he  would 
frequently  say  to  his  father,  "  Have  I  offended  you,  that  you  look 
105 


MARK     TWAIN 

upon  me  as  a  stranger,  and  frown  upon  me  with  stinging  looks? 
Will  you  not  favor  me  with  the  sound  of  your  voice?  If  I 
have  trampled  upon  your  veneration,  or  have  spread  a  humid 
veil  of  darkness  around  your  expectations,  send  me  back  into 
the  world,  where  no  heart  beats  for  me — where  the  foot  of  man 
has  never  yet  trod;  but  give  me  at  least  one  kind  word — allow 
me  to  come  into  the  presence  sometimes  of  thy  winter-worn 
locks."  "Forbid  it,  Heaven,  that  I  should  be  angry  with  thee," 
answered  the  father,  "my  son,  and  yet  I  send  thee  back  to  the 
children  of  the  world — to  the  cold  charity  of  the  combat,  and 
to  a  land  of  victory.  I  read  another  destiny  in  thy  countenance 
— I  learn  thy  inclinations  from  the  flame  that  has  already 
kindled  in  my  soul  a  strange  sensation.  It  will  seek  thee,  my 
dear  Elfonzo,  it  will  find  thee — thou  canst  not  escape  that  lighted 
torch,  which  shall  blot  out  from  the  remembrance  of  men  a 
long  train  of  prophecies  which  they  have  foretold  against  thee. 
I  once  thought  not  so.  Once,  I  was  blind;  but  now  the  path  of 
life  is  plain  before  me,  and  my  sight  is  clear;  yet,  Elfonzo,  return 
to  thy  worldly  occupation — take  again  in  thy  hand  that  chord 
of  sweet  sounds — struggle  with  the  civilized  world  and  with 
your  own  heart;  fly  swiftly  to  the  enchanted  ground— let  the 
wght-Owl  send  forth  its  screams  from  the  stubborn  oak — let  the 
sea  sport  upon  the  beach,  and  the  stars  sing  together;  but  learn 
of  these,  Elfonzo,  thy  doom,  and  thy  hiding-place.  Our  most 
innocent  as  well  as  our  most  lawful  desires  must  often  be  denied 
us,  that  we  may  learn  to  sacrifice  them  to  a  Higher  will." 

Remembering  such  admonitions  with  gratitude,  Elfonzo  was 
immediately  urged  by  the  recollection  of  his  father's  family  to 
keep  moving. 

McClintock  has  a  fine  gift  in  the  matter  of  sur- 
prises; but  as  a  rule  they  are  not  pleasant  ones,  they 
jar  upon  the  feelings.  His  closing  sentence  in  the 
last  quotation  is  of  that  sort.  It  brings  one  down 
out  of  the  tinted  clouds  in  too  sudden  and  collapsed 
a  fashion.  It  incenses  one  against  the  author  for  a 
moment.  It  makes  the  reader  want  to  take  him  by 
his  winter-worn  locks,  and  trample  on  his  venera- 
tion, and  deliver  him  over  to  the  cold  charity  of  com- 
106 


A    CURE    FOR    THE    BLUES 

bat,  and  blot  him  out  with  his  own  lighted  torch. 
But  the  feeling  does  not  last.  The  master  takes 
again  in  his  hand  that  concord  of  sweet  sounds  of 
his,  and  one  is  reconciled,  pacified. 

His  steps  became  quicker  and  quicker — he  hastened  through 
the  piny  woods,  dark  as  the  forest  was,  and  with  joy  he  very 
soon  reached  the  little  village  of  repose,  in  whose  bosom  rested 
the  boldest  chivalry.  His  close  attention  to  every  important 
object — his  modest  questions  about  whatever  was  new  to  him — 
his  reverence  for  wise  old  age,  and  his  ardent  desire  to  learn  many 
of  the  fine  arts,  soon  brought  him  into  respectable  notice. 

One  mild  winter  day,  as  he  walked  along  the  streets  toward 
the  Academy,  which  stood  upon  a  small  eminence,  surrounded 
by  native  growth — some  venerable  in  its  appearance,  others 
young  and  prosperous — all  seemed  inviting,  and  seemed  to  be 
the  very  place  for  learning  as  well  as  for  genius  to  spend  its 
research  beneath  its  spreading  shades.  He  entered  its  classic 
walls  in  the  usual  mode  of  southern  manners. 

The  artfulness  of  this  man!  None  knows  so  well 
as  he  how  to  pique  the  curiosity  of  the  reader — and 
how  to  disappoint  it.  He  raises  the  hope,  here,  that 
he  is  going  to  tell  all  about  how  one  enters  a  classic 
wall  in  the  usual  mode  of  Southern  manners;  but 
does  he  ?  No ;  he  smiles  in  his  sleeve,  and  turns  aside 
to  other  matters. 

The  principal  of  the  Institution  begged  him  to  be  seated  and 
listen  to  the  recitations  that  were  going  on.  He  accordingly 
obeyed  the  request,  and  seemed  to  be  much  pleased.  After  the 
school  was  dismissed,  and  the  young  hearts  regained  their  free- 
dom, with  the  songs  of  the  evening,  laughing  at  the  anticipated 
pleasures  of  a  happy  home,  while  others  tittered  at  the  actions 
of  the  past  day,  he  addressed  the  teacher  in  a  tone  that  indi- 
cated a  resolution — with  an  undaunted  mind.  He  said  he  had 
determined  to  become  a  student,  if  he  could  meet  with  his 
approbation.  "Sir,"  said  he,  "I  have  spent  much  time  in  the 
107 


MARK    TWAIN 

world.  I  have  traveled  among  the  uncivilized  inhabitants  of 
America.  I  have  met  with  friends,  and  combated  with  foes; 
but  none  of  these  gratify  my  ambition,  or  decide  what  is  to  be 
my  destiny.  I  see  the  learned  world  have  an  influence  with  the 
voice  of  the  people  themselves.  The  despoilers  of  the  remotest 
kingdoms  of  the  earth  refer  their  differences  to  this  class  of 
persons.  This  the  illiterate  and  inexperienced  little  dream  of; 
and  now  if  you  will  receive  me  as  I  am,  with  these  deficiencies — 
with  all  my  misguided  opinions,  I  will  give  you  my  honor,  sir, 
that  I  will  never  disgrace  the  Institution,  or  those  who  have 
placed  you  in  this  honorable  station."  The  instructor,  who  had 
met  with  many  disappointments,  knew  how  to  feel  for  a  stranger 
who  had  been  thus  turned  upon  the  charities  of  an  unfeeling 
community.  He  looked  at  him  earnestly,  and  said:  "Be  of 
good  cheer — look  forward,  sir,  to  the  high  destination  you  may 
attain.  Remember,  the  more  elevated  the  mark  at  which  you 
aim,  the  more  sure,  the  more  glorious,  the  more  magnificent  the 
prize."  From  wonder  to  wonder,  his  encouragement  led  the 
impatient  listener.  A  strange  nature  bloomed  before  him — 
giant  streams  promised  him  success — gardens  of  hidden  treasures 
opened  to  his  view.  All  this,  so  vividly  described,  seemed  to 
gain  a  new  witchery  from  his  glowing  fancy. 

It  seems  to  me  that  this  situation  is  new  in  ro- 
mance. I  feel  sure  it  has  not  been  attempted  before. 
Military  celebrities  have  been  disguised  and  set  at 
lowly  occupations  for  dramatic  effect,  but  I  think 
McClintock  is  the  first  to  send  one  of  them  to  school. 
Thus,  in  this  book,  you  pass  from  wonder  to  won- 
der, through  gardens  of  hidden  treasure,  where  giant 
streams  bloom  before  you,  and  behind  you,  and  all 
around,  and  you  feel  as  happy,  and  groggy,  and 
satisfied  with  your  quart  of  mixed  metaphor  aboard 
as  you  would  if  it  had  been  mixed  ^in  a  sample-room 
and  delivered  from  a  jug. 

Now  we  come  upon  some  more  McClintockian  sur- 
prises— a  sweetheart  who  is  sprung  upon  us  with- 
108 


A  CURE  FOR  THE  BLUES 

out  any  preparation,  along  with  a  name  for  her 
which  is  even  a  little  more  of  a  surprise  than  she 
herself  is. 

In  1842  he  entered  the  class,  and  made  rapid  progress  in  the 
English  and  Latin  departments.  Indeed,  he  continued  ad- 
vancing with  such  rapidity  that  he  was  like  to  become  the  first 
in  his  class,  and  made  such  unexpected  progress,  and  was  so 
studious,  that  he  had  almost  forgotten  the  pictured  saint  of 
his  affections.  The  fresh  wreaths  of  the  pine  and  cypress  had 
waited  anxiously  to  drop  once  more  the  dews  of  Heaven  upon  the 
heads  of  those  who  had  so  often  poured  forth  the  tender  emo- 
tions of  their  souls  under  its  boughs.  He  was  aware  of  the 
pleasure  that  he  had  seen  there.  So  one  evening,  as  he  was 
returning  from  his  reading,  he  concluded  he  would  pay  a  visit 
to  this  enchanting  spot.  Little  did  he  think  of  witnessing  a 
shadow  of  his  former  happiness,  though  no  doubt  he  wished  it 
might  be  so.  He  continued  sauntering  by  the  roadside,  medi- 
tating on  the  past.  The  nearer  he  approached  the  spot,  the  more 
anxious  he  became.  At  that  moment  a  tall  female  figure 
flitted  across  his  path,  with  a  bunch  of  roses  in  her  hand;  her 
countenance  showed  uncommon  vivacity,  with  a  resolute  spirit; 
her  ivory  teeth  already  appeared  as  she  smiled  beautifully, 
promenading — while  her  ringlets  of  hair  dangled  unconsciously 
around  her  snowy  neck.  Nothing  was  wanting  to  complete  her 
beauty.  The  tinge  of  the  rose  was  in  full  bloom  upon  her  cheek; 
the  charms  of  sensibility  and  tenderness  were  always  her  asso- 
ciates. In  Ambulinia's  bosom  dwelt  a  noble  soul — one  that 
never  faded— one  that  never  was  conquered. 

Ambulinia!  It  can  hardly  be  matched  in  fiction. 
The  full  name  is  Ambulinia  Valeer.  Marriage  will 
presently  round  it  out  and  perfect  it.  Then  it  will  be 
Mrs.  Ambulinia  Valeer  Elfonzo.  It  takes  the  chromo. 

Her  heart  yielded  to  no  feeling  but  the  love  of  Elfonzo,  on 

whom  she  gazed  with  intense  delight,  and  to  whom  she  felt 

herself  more  closely  bound,  because  he  sought  the  hand  of  no 

other.    Elfonzo  was  roused  from  his  apparent  reverie.    His 

109 


MARK     TWAIN 

books  no  longer  were  his  inseparable  companions — his  thoughts 
arrayed  themselves  to  encourage  him  to  the  field  of  victory. 
He  endeavored  to  speak  to  his  supposed  Ambulinia,  but  his 
speech  appeared  not  in  words.  No,  his  effort  was  a  stream  of 
fire,  that  kindled  his  soul  into  a  flame  of  admiration,  and  carried 
his  senses  away  captive.  Ambulinia  had  disappeared,  to  make 
him  more  mindful  of  his  duty.  As  she  walked  speedily  away 
through  the  piny  woods,  she  calmly  echoed:  "0!  Elfonzo,  thou 
wilt  now  look  from  thy  sunbeams.  Thou  shalt  now  walk  in  a 
new  path — perhaps  thy  way  leads  through  darkness;  but  fear 
not,  the  stars  foretell  happiness." 

To  McClintock  that  jingling  jumble  of  fine  words 
meant  something,  no  doubt,  or  seemed  to  mean 
something;  but  it  is  useless  for  us  to  try  to  divine 
what  it  was.  Ambulinia  comes — we  don't  know 
whence  nor  why;  she  mysteriously  intimates — we 
don't  know  what ;  and  then  she  goes  echoing  away — 
we  don't  know  whither ;  and  down  comes  the  curtain. 
McClintock's  art  is  subtle;  McClintock's  art  is  deep. 

Not  many  days  afterward,  as  surrounded  by  fragrant  flowers 
she  sat  one  evening  at  twilight,  to  enjoy  the  cool  breeze  that 
whispered  notes  of  melody  along  the  distant  groves,  the  little 
birds  perched  on  every  side,  as  if  to  watch  the  movements  of  their 
new  visitor.  The  bells  were  tolling,  when  Elfonzo  silently  stole 
along  by  the  wild  wood  flowers,  holding  in  his  hand  his  favorite 
instrument  of  music — his  eye  continually  searching  for  Ambu- 
linia, who  hardly  seemed  to  perceive  him,  as  she  played  care- 
lessly with  the  songsters  that  hopped  from  branch  to  branch. 
Nothing  could  be  more  striking  than  the  difference  between  the 
two.  Nature  seemed  to  have  given  the  more  tender  soul  to 
Elfonzo,  and  the  stronger  and  more  courageous  to  Ambulinia. 
A  deep  feeling  spoke  from  the  eyes  of  Elfonzo— such  a  feeling  as 
can  only  be  expressed  by  those  who  are  blessed  as  admirers,  and 
by  those  who  are  able  to  return  the  same  with  sincerity  of  heart. 
He  was  a  few  years  older  than  Ambulinia:  she  had  turned  a  Tittle 
into  her  seventeenth.  He  had  almost  grown  up  in  the  Cherokee 
country,  with  the  same  equal  proportions  as  one  of  the  natives. 
no 


A  CUKE  FOR  THE  BLUES 

But  little  intimacy  had  existed  between  them  until  the  year 
forty-one — because  the  youth  felt  that  the  character  of  such  a 
lovely  girl  was  too  exalted  to  inspire  any  other  feeling  than  that 
of  quiet  reverence.  But  as  lovers  will  not  always  be  insulted, 
at  all  times  and  under  all  circumstances,  by  the  frowns  and  cold 
looks  of  crabbed  old  age,  which  should  continually  reflect  dignity 
upon  those  around,  and  treat  the  unfortunate  as  well  as  the 
fortunate  with  a  graceful  mien,  he  continued  to  use  diligence  and 
perseverance.  All  this  lighted  a  spark  in  his  heart  that  changed 
his  whole  character,  and  like  the  unyielding  Deity  that  follows 
the  storm  to  check  its  rage  in  the  forest,  he  resolves  for  the  first 
time  to  shake  of!  his  embarrassment  and  return  where  he  had 
before  only  worshiped. 

At  last  we  begin  to  get  the  Major's  measure.  We 
are  able  to  put  this  and  that  casual  fact  together,  and 
build  the  man  up  before  our  eyes,  and  look  at  him. 
And  after  we  have  got  him  built,  we  find  him  worth 
the  trouble.  By  the  above  comparison  between  his 
age  and  Ambulinia's,  we  guess  the  war-worn  veteran 
to  be  twenty- two;  and  the  other  facts  stand  thus: 
he  had  grown  up  in  the  Cherokee  country  with  the 
same  equal  proportions  as  one  of  the  natives — how 
flowing  and  graceful  the  language,  and  yet  how 
tantalizing  as  to  meaning! — he  had  been  turned 
adrift  by  his  father,  to  whom  he  had  been  "somewhat 
of  a  dutiful  son  " ;  he  wandered  in  distant  lands;  came 
back  frequently  "to  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood,  almost 
destitute  of  many  of  the  comforts  of  life,"  in  order 
to  get  into  the  presence  of  his  father's  winter-worn 
locks,  and  spread  a  humid  veil  of  darkness  around 
his  expectations;  but  he  was  always  promptly  sent 
back  to  the  cold  charity  of  the  combat  again;  he 
learned  to  play  the  fiddle,  and  made  a  name  for 
himself  in  that  line;  he  had  dwelt  among  the  wild 


MARK    TWAIN 

tribes;  he  had  philosophized  about  the  despoilers 
of  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth,  and  found  out — the 
cunning  creature — that  they  refer  their  differences 
to  the  learned  for  settlement;  he  had  achieved  a 
vast  fame  as  a  military  chieftain,  the  Achilles  of  the 
Florida  campaigns,  and  then  had  got  him  a  spelling- 
book  and  started  to  school;  he  had  fallen  in  love  with 
Ambulinia  Valeer  while  she  was  teething,  but  had 
kept  it  to  himself  awhile,  out  of  the  reverential  awe 
which  he  felt  for  the  child;  but  now  at  last,  like  the 
unyielding  Deity  who  follows  the  storm  to  check  its 
rage  in  the  forest,  he  resolves  to  shake  off  his  em- 
barrassment, and  to  return  where  before  he  had  only 
worshiped.  The  Major,  indeed,  has  made  up  his 
mind  to  rise  up  and  shake  his  faculties  together,  and 
to  see  if  he  can't  do  that  thing  himself.  This  is  not 
clear.  But  no  matter  about  that:  there  stands  the 
hero,  compact  and  visible;  and  he  is  no  mean  struc- 
ture, considering  that  his  creator  had  never  created 
anything  before,  and  hadn't  anything  but  rags  and 
wind  to  build  with  this  time.  It  seems  to  me  that 
no  one  can  contemplate  this  odd  creature,  this  quaint 
and  curious  blatherskite,  without  admiring  Mc- 
Clintock,  or,  at  any  rate,  loving  him  and  feeling 
grateful  to  him;  for  McClintock  made  him,  he  gave 
him  to  us ;  without  McClintock  we  could  not  have  had 
him,  and  would  now  be  poor. 

But  we  must  come  to  the  feast  again.  Here  is  a 
courtship  scene,  down  there  in  the  romantic  glades 
among  the  raccoons,  alligators,  and  things,  that  has 
merit,  peculiar  literary  merit.  See  how  Achilles 
woos.  Dwell  upon  the  second  sentence  (particu- 


A    CURE    FOR    THE    BLUES 

larly  the  close  of  it)  and  the  beginning  of  the  third. 
Never  mind  the  new  personage,  Leos,  who  is  in- 
truded upon  us  unheralded  and  unexplained.  That 
is  McClintock's  way;  it  is  his  habit;  it  is  a  part  of  his 
genius;  he  cannot  help  it;  he  never  interrupts  the 
rush  of  his  narrative  to  make  introductions. 

It  could  not  escape  AmbulinLi's  penetrating  eye  that  he  sought 
an  interview  with  her,  which  she  as  anxiously  avoided,  and 
assumed  a  more  distant  calmness  than  before,  seemingly  to 
destroy  all  hope.  After  many  efforts  and  struggles  with  his  own 
person,  with  timid  steps  the  Major  approached  the  damsel,  with 
the  same  caution  as  he  would  have  done  in  a  field  of  battle. 
"Lady  Ambulinia,"  said  he,  trembling,  "I  have  long  desired  a 
moment  like  this.  I  dare  not  let  it  escape.  I  fear  the  conse- 
quences; yet  I  hope  your  indulgence  will  at  least  hear  my 
petition.  Can  you  not  anticipate  what  I  would  say,  and  what 
I  am  about  to  express?  Will  not  you,  like  Minerva,  who  sprung 
from  the  brain  of  Jupiter,  release  me  from  thy  winding  chains 
or  cure  me — "  "Say  no  more,  Elfonzo,"  answered  Ambulinia, 
with  a  serious  look,  raising  her  hand  as  if  she  intended  to  swear 
eternal  hatred  against  the  whole  world ;  "  another  lady  in  my  place 
would  have  perhaps  answered  your  question  in  bitter  coldness. 
I  know  not  the  little  arts  of  my  sex.  I  care  but  little  for  the 
vanity  of  those  who  would  chide  me,  and  am  unwilling  as  well 
as  ashamed  to  be  guilty  of  anything  that  would  lead  you  to 
think  'all  is  not  gold  that  glitters';  so  be  not  rash  in  your  reso- 
lution. It  is  better  to  repent  now,  than  to  do  it  in  a  more  solemn 
hour.  Yes,  I  know  what  you  would  say.  I  know  you  have  a 
costly  gift  for  me — the  noblest  that  man  can  make — your 
heart  t  You  should  not  offer  it  to  one  so  unworthy.  Heaven, 
you  know,  has  allowed  my  father's  house  to  be  made  a  house  of 
solitude,  a  home  of  silent  obedience,  which  my  parents  say  is 
more  to  be  admired  than  big  names  and  high-sounding  titles. 
Notwithstanding  all  this,  let  me  speak  the  emotions  of  an  honest 
heart — allow  me  to  say  in  the  fullness  of  my  hopes  that  I  antici- 
pate better  days.  The  bird  may  stretch  its  wings  toward  the 
sun,  which  it  can  never  reach;  and  flowers  of  the  field  appear  to 
ascend  in  the  same  direction,  because  they  cannot  do  otherwise; 
113 


MARK     TWAIN 

but  man  confides  his  complaints  to  the  saints  in  whom  he 
believes;  for  in  their  abodes  of  light  they  know  no  more  sorrow. 
From  your  confession  and  indicative  looks,  I  must  be  that  person; 
if  so  deceive  not  yourself." 

Elfonzo  replied,  "Pardon  me,  my  dear  madam,  for  my 
frankness.  I  have  loved  you  from  my  earliest  days — everything 
grand  and  beautiful  hath  borne  the  image  of  Ambulinia;  while 
precipices  on  every  hand  surrounded  me,  your  guardian  angel 
stood  and  beckoned  me  away  from  the  deep  abyss.  In  every 
trial,  in  every  misfortune,  I  have  met  with  your  helping  hand; 
yet  I  never  dreamed  or  dared  to  cherish  thy  love,  till  a  voice 
impaired  with  age  encouraged  the  cause,  and  declared  they  who 
acquired  thy  favor  should  win  a  victory.  I  saw  how  Leos  wor- 
shiped thee.  I  felt  my  own  unworthiness.  I  began  to  know 
jealousy,  a  strong  guest — indeed,  in  my  bosom, — yet  !•  could  see 
if  I  gained  your  admiration  Leos  was  to  be  my  rival.  I  was 
aware  that  he  had  the  influence  of  your  parents,  and  the  wealth 
of  a  deceased  relative,  which  is  too  often  mistaken  for  permanent 
and  regular  tranquillity;  yet  I  have  determined  by  your  per- 
mission to  beg  an  interest  in  your  prayers — to  ask  you  to  animate 
my  drooping  spirits  by  your  smiles  and  your  winning  looks;  for 
if  you  but  speak  I  shall  be  conqueror,  my  enemies  shall  stagger 
like  Olympus  shakes.  And  though  earth  and  sea  may  tremble, 
and  the  charioteer  of  the  sun  may  forget  his  dashing  steed,  yet 
I  am  assured  that  it  is  only  to  arm  me  with  divine  weapons  which 
will  enable  me  to  complete  my  long-tried  intention." 

"Return  to  yourself,  Elfonzo,"  said  Ambulinia,  pleasantly:  "a 
dream  of  vision  has  disturbed  your  intellect;  you  are  above  the  at- 
mosphere, dwelling  in  the  celestial  regions ;  nothing  is  there  that 
urges  or  hinders,  nothing  that  brings  discord  into  our  present  liti- 
gation. I  entreat  you  to  condescend  a  little,  and  be  a  man,  and 
forget  it  all.  When  Homer  describes  the  battle  of  the  gods  and 
noble  men  fighting  with  giants  and  dragons,  they  represent  under 
this  image  our  struggles  with  the  delusions  of  our  passions.  You 
have  exalted  me,  an  unhappy  girl,  to  the  skies;  you  have  called 
me  a  saint,  and  portrayed  in  your  imagination  an  angel  in  human 
form.  Let  her  remain  such  to  you,  let  her  continue  to  be  as  you 
have  supposed,  and  be  assured  that  she  will  consider  a  share  in 
your  esteem  as  her  highest  treasure.  Think  not  that  I  would 
allure  you  from  the  path  in  which  your  conscience  leads  you ;  for 
you  know  I  respect  the  conscience  of  others,  as  I  would  die  for 
114 


A    CURE    FOR    THE    BLUES 

my  own.  Elfonzo,  if  I  am  worthy  of  thy  love,  let  such  conversa- 
tion never  again  pass  between  us.  Go,  seek  a  nobler  theme!  we 
will  seek  it  in  the  stream  of  time,  as  the  sun  set  in  the  Tigris." 
As  she  spake  these  words  she  grasped  the  hand  of  Elfonzo,  saying 
at  the  same  time — "Peace  and  prosperity  attend  you,  my  hero; 
be  up  and  doing  I"  Closing  her  remarks  with  this  expression, 
she  walked  slowly  away,  leaving  Elfonzo  astonished  and  amazed. 
He  ventured  not.to  follow  or  detain  her.  Here  he  stood  alone, 
gazing  at  the  stars;  confounded  as  he  was,  here  he  stood. 

Yes;  there  he  stood.  There  seems  to  be  no  doubt 
about  that.  Nearly  half  of  this  delirious  story  has 
now  been  delivered  to  the  reader.  It  seems  a  pity 
to  reduce  the  other  half  to  a  cold  synopsis.  Pity !  it 
is  more  than  a  pity,  it  is  a  crime;  for  to  synopsize 
McClintock  is  to  reduce  a  sky-flushing  conflagration 
to  dull  embers,  it  is  to  reduce  barbaric  splendor  to 
ragged  poverty.  McClintock  never  wrote  a  line  that 
was  not  precious;  he  never  wrote  one  that  could  be 
spared;  he  never  framed  one  from  which  a  word 
could  be  removed  without  damage.  Every  sentence 
that  this  master  has  produced  may  be  likened  to  a 
perfect  set  of  teeth,  white,  uniform,  beautiful.  If 
you  pull  one,  the  charm  is  gone. 

Still,  it  is  now  necessary  to  begin  to  pull,  and  to 
keep  it  up;  for  lack  of  space  requires  us  to  synopsize. 

We  left  Elfonzo  standing  there  amazed.  At  what, 
we  do  not  know.  Not  at  the  girl's  speech.  No;  we 
ourselves  should  have  been  amazed  at  it,  of  course, 
for  none  of  us  has  ever  heard  anything  resembling 
it;  but  Elfonzo  was  used  to  speeches  made  up  of 
noise  and  vacancy,  and  could  listen  to  them  with 
undaunted  mind  like  the  "topmost  topaz  of  an 
ancient  tower";  he  was  used  to  making  them  him- 
"5 


MARK    TWAIN 

self;  he — but  let  it  go,  it  cannot  be  guessed  out;  we 
shall  never  know  what  it  was  that  astonished  him. 
He  stood  there  awhile;  then  he  said,  "Alas!  am  I  now 
Grief's  disappointed  son  at  last?"  He  did  not  stop 
to  examine  his  mind,  and  to  try  to  find  out  what  he 
probably  meant  by  that,  because,  for  one  reason, 
"a  mixture  of  ambition  and  greatness  of  soul  moved 
upon  his  young  heart,"  and  started  him  for  the 
village.  He  resumed  his  bench  in  school,  "and 
reasonably  progressed  in  his  education."  His  heart 
was  heavy,  but  he  went  into  society,  and  sought 
surcease  of  sorrow  in  its  light  distractions.  He 
made  himself  popular  with  his  violin,  "which  seemed 
to  have  a  thousand  chords — more  symphonious  than 
the  Muses  of  Apollo,  and  more  enchanting  than 
the  ghost  of  the  Hills."  This  is  obscure,  but  let 
it  go. 

During  this  interval  Leos  did  some  unencouraged 
courting,  but  at  last,  "choked  by  his  undertaking," 
he  desisted. 

Presently  "Elfonzo  again  wends  his  way  to  the 
stately  walls  and  new-built  village."  He  goes  to  the 
house  of  his  beloved ;  she  opens  the  door  herself.  To 
my  surprise — for  Ambulinia's  heart  had  still  seemed 
free  at  the  time  of  their  last  interview — love  beamed 
from  the  girl's  eyes.  One  sees  that  Elfonzo  was  sur- 
prised, too;  for  when  he  caught  that  light,  "a  halloo 
of  smothered  shouts  ran  through  every  vein."  A 
neat  figure — a  very  neat  figure,  indeed!  Then  he 
kissed  her.  "The  scene  was  overwhelming."  They 
went  into  the  parlor.  The  girl  said  it  was  safe,  for 
her  parents  were  abed,  and  would  never  know. 
116 


A    CURE    FOR    THE    BLUES 

Then  we  have  this  fine  picture — flung   upon   the 
canvas  with  hardly  an  effort,  as  you  will  notice. 

Advancing  toward  him,  she  gave  a  bright  display  of  her  rosy 
neck,  and  from  her  head  the  ambrosial  locks  breathed  divine 
fragrance;  her  robe  hung  waving  to  his  view,  while  she  stood  like 
a  goddess  confessed  before  him. 

There  is  nothing  of  interest  in  the  couple's  inter- 
view. Now  at  this  point  the  girl  invites  Elfonzo  to 
a  village  show,  where  jealousy  is  the  motive  of  the 
play,  for  she  wants  to  teach  him  a  wholesome  lesson, 
if  he  is  a  jealous  person.  But  this  is  a  sham,  and 
pretty  shallow.  McClintock  merely  wants  a  pre- 
text to  drag  in  a  plagiarism  of  his  upon  a  scene  or 
two  in  "Othello." 

The  lovers  went  to  the  play.  Elfonzo  was  one  of 
the  fiddlers.  He  and  Ambulinia  must  not  be  seen 
together,  lest  trouble  follow  with  the  girl's  malignant 
father;  we  are  made  to  understand  that  clearly.  So 
the  two  sit  together  in  the  orchestra,  in  the  midst  of 
the  musicians.  This  does  not  seem  to  be  good  art. 
In  the  first  place,  the  girl  would  be  in  the  way,  for 
orchestras  are  always  packed  closely  together,  and 
there  is  no  room  to  spare  for  people's  girls;  in  the 
next  place,  one  cannot  conceal  a  girl  in  an  orches- 
tra without  everybody  taking  notice  of  it.  There 
can  be  no  doubt,  it  seems  to  me,  that  tmVis  bad 
art. 

Leos  is  present.    Of  course,  one  of  the  first  things 

that  catches  his  eye  is  the  maddening  spectacle  of 

Ambulinia  "leaning  upon  Elfonzo's  chair."     This 

poor  girl  does  not  seem  to  understand  even  the  rudi- 

117 


MARK    TWAIN 

merits  of  concealment.  But  she  is  "in  her  seven- 
teenth," as  the  author  phrases  it,  and  that  is  her 
justification. 

Leos  meditates,  constructs  a  plan — with  personal 
violence  as  a  basis,  of  course.  It  was  their  way 
down  there.  It  is  a  good  plain  plan,  without  any 
imagination  in  it.  He  will  go  out  and  stand  at  the 
front  door,  and  when  these  two  come  out  he  will 
"arrest  Ambulinia  from  the  hands  of  the  insolent 
Elfonzo,"  and  thus  make  for  himself  a  "more  pros- 
perous field  of  immortality  than  ever  was  decreed 
by  Omnipotence,  or  ever  pencil  drew  or  artist 
imagined."  But,  dear  me,  while  he  is  waiting  there 
the  couple  climb  out  at  the  back  window  and  scurry 
home!  This  is  romantic  enough,  but  there  is  a  lack 
of  dignity  in  the  situation. 

At  this  point  McClintock  puts  in  the  whole  of  his 
curious  play — which  we  skip. 

Some  correspondence  follows  now.  The  bitter 
father  and  the  distressed  lovers  write  the  letters. 
Elopements  are  attempted.  They  are  idiotically 
planned,  and  they  fail.  Then  we  have  several  pages 
of  romantic  powwow  and  confusion  signifying  noth- 
ing. Another  elopement  is  planned;  it  is  to  take 
place  on  Sunday,  when  everybody  is  at  church. 
But  the  "hero"  cannot  keep  the  secret;  he  tells 
everybody.  Another  author  would  have  found  an- 
other instrument  when  he  decided  to  defeat  this 
elopement;  but  that  is  not  McClintock's  way.  He 
uses  the  person  that  is  nearest  at  hand. 

The  evasion  failed,  of  course.  Ambulinia,  in  her 
flight,  takes  refuge  in  a  neighbor's  house.  Her 
nS 


A    CURE    FOR    THE    BLUES 

father  drags  her  home.     The  villagers  gather,  at- 
tracted by  the  racket. 

Elfonzo  was  moved  at  this  sight.  The  people  followed  on  to 
see  what  was  going  to  become  of  Ambulinia,  while  he,  with 
downcast  looks,  kept  at  a  distance,  until  he  saw  them  enter  the 
abode  of  the  father,  thrusting  her,  that  was  the  sigh  of  his  soul, 
out  of  his  presence  into  a  solitary  apartment,  when  she  ex- 
claimed, "Elfonzo!  Elfonzo!  oh,  Elfonzol  where  art  thou,  with 
all  thy  heroes?  haste,  oh!  haste,  come  thou  to  my  relief.  Ride 
on  the  wings  of  the  wind!  Turn  thy  force  loose  like  a  tempest, 
and  roll  on  thy  army  like  a  whirlwind,  over  this  mountain  of 
trouble  and  confusion.  Oh,  friends!  if  any  pity  me,  let  your  last 
efforts  throng  upon  the  green  hills,  and  come  to  the  relief  of 
Ambulinia,  who  is  guilty  of  nothing  but  innocent  love."  Elfonzo 
called  out  with  a  loud  voice,  " My  God,  can  I  stand  this!  arouse 
up,  I  beseech  you,  and  put  an  end  to  this  tyranny.  Come,  my 
brave  boys,"  said  he,  "are  you  ready  to  go  forth  to  your  duty?" 
They  stood  around  him.  "Who,"  said  he,  "will  call  us  to  arms? 
Where  are  my  thunderbolts  of  war?  Speak  ye,  the  first  who  will 
meet  the  foe!  Who  will  go  forward  with  me  in  this  ocean  of 
grievous  temptation?  If  there  is  one  who  desires  to  go,  let  him 
come  and  shake  hands  upon  the  altar  of  devotion,  and  swear 
that  he  will  be  a  hero;  yes,  a  Hector  in  a  cause  like  this,  which 
calls  aloud  for  a  speedy  remedy."  "Mine  be  the  deed,"  said  a 
young  lawyer,  "and  mine  alone;  Venus  alone  shall  quit  her 
station  before  I  will  forsake  one  jot  or  tittle  of  my  promise  to 
you;  what  is  death  to  me?  what  is  all  this  warlike  army,  if  it  is 
not  to  win  a  victory?  I  love  the  sleep  of  the  lover  and  the 
mighty;  nor  would  I  give  it  over  till  the  blood  of  my  enemies 
should  wreak  with  that  of  my  own.  But  God  forbid  that  our 
fame  should  soar  on  the  blood  of  the  slumberer."  Mr.  Valeer 
stands  at  his  door  with  the  frown  of  a  demon  upon  his  brow,  with 
his  dangerous  weapon1  ready  to  strike  the  first  man  who  should 
enter  his  door.  "Who  will  arise  and  go  forward  through  blood 
and  carnage  to  the  rescue  of  my  Ambulinia?"  said  Elfonzo. 
"All,"  exclaimed  the  multitude;  and  onward  they  went,  with 
their  implements  of  battle.  Others,  of  a  more  timid  nature, 
stood  among  the  distant  hills  to  see  the  result  of  the  contest. 

1  It  is  a  crowbar. 
119 


MARK    TWAIN 

It  will  hardly  be  believed  that  after  all  this  thunder 
and  lightning  not  a  drop  of  rain  fell ;  but  such  is  the 
fact.  Elfonzo  and  his  gang  stood  up  and  black- 
guarded Mr.  Valeer  with  vigor  all  night,  getting  their 
outlay  back  with  interest ;  then  in  the  early  morning 
the  army  and  its  general  retired  from  the  field, 
leaving  the  victory  with  their  solitary  adversary  and 
his  crowbar.  This  is  the  first  time  this  has  hap- 
pened in  romantic  literature.  The  invention  is 
original.  Everything  in  this  book  is  original;  there 
is  nothing  hackneyed  about  it  anywhere.  Always,  in 
other  romances,  when  you  find  the  author  leading 
up  to  a  climax,  you  know  what  is  going  to  happen. 
But  in  this  book  it  is  different ;  the  thing  which  seems 
inevitable  and  unavoidable  never  happens;  it  is  cir- 
cumvented by  the  art  of  the  author  every  time. 

Another  elopement  was  attempted.     It  failed. 

We  have  now  arrived  at  the  end.  But  it  is  not 
exciting.  McClintock  thinks  it  is;  but  it  isn't.  One 
day  Elfonzo  sent  Ambulinia  another  note — a  note 
proposing  elopement  No.  16.  This  time  the  plan  is 
admirable;  admirable,  sagacious,  ingenious,  imagi- 
native, deep — oh,  everything,  and  perfectly  easy. 
One  wonders  why  it  was  never  thought  of  before. 
This  is  the  scheme.  Ambulinia  is  to  leave  the  break- 
fast-table, ostensibly  to  "attend  to  the  placing  of 
those  flowers,  which  should  have  been  done  a  week 
ago" — artificial  ones,  of  course;  the  others  wouldn't 
keep  so  long — and  then,  instead  of  fixing  the  flowers, 
she  is  to  walk  out  to  the  grove,  and  go  off  with 
Elfonzo.  The  invention  of  this  plan  overstrained 
the  author,  that  is  plain,  for  he  straightway  shows 
120 


A  CURE  FOR  THE  BLUES 

failing  powers.  The  details  of  the  plan  are  not 
many  or  elaborate.  The  author  shall  state  them 
himself — this  good  soul,  whose  intentions  are  always 
better  than  his  English : 

"You  walk  carelessly  toward  the  academy  grove,  where  you 
will  find  me  with  a  lightning  steed,  elegantly  equipped  to  bear 
you  off  where  we  shall  be  joined  in  wedlock  with  the  first  con- 
nubial rights." 

Last  scene  of  all,  which  the  author,  now  much  en- 
feebled, tries  to  smarten  up  and  make  acceptable  to 
his  spectacular  heart  by  introducing  some  new  prop- 
erties—  silver  bow,  golden  harp,  olive  branch  — 
things  that  can  all  come  good  in  an  elopement,  no 
doubt,  yet  are  not  to  be  compared  to  an  umbrella 
for  real  handiness  and  reliability  in  an  excursion  of 
that  kind. 

And  away  she  ran  to  the  sacred  grove,  surrounded  with 
glittering  pearls,  that  indicated  her  coming.  Elfonzo  hails  her 
with  his  silver  bow  and  his  golden  harp.  They  meet — Ambu- 
linia's  countenance  brightens — Elfonzo  leads  up  the  winged 
steed.  "Mount,"  said  he,  "ye  true-hearted,  ye  fearless  soul — 
the  day  is  ours."  She  sprang  upon  the  back  of  the  young 
thunderbolt,  a  brilliant  star  sparkles  upon  her  head,  with  one 
hand  she  grasps  the  reins,  and  with  the  other  she  holds  an  olive 
branch.  " Lend  thy  aid,  ye  strong  winds,"  they  exclaimed,  "ye 
moon,  ye  sun,  and  all  ye  fair  host  of  heaven,  witness  the  enemy 
conquered."  "Hold,"  said  Elfonzo,  "thy  dashing  steed." 
"Ride  on,"  said  Ambulinia,  "the  voice  of  thunder  is  behind  us." 
And  onward  they  went,  with  such  rapidity  that  they  very  soon 
arrived  at  Rural  Retreat,  where  they  dismounted,  and  were 
united  with  all  the  solemnities  that  usually  attend  such  divine 
operations. 

There  is  but  one  Homer,  there  is  but  one  Shake- 
speare, there  is  but  one  McClintock — and  his  immor- 

121 


MARK    TWAIN 

tal  book  is  before  you.  Homer  could  not  have 
written  this  book,  Shakespeare  could  not  have 
written  it,  I  could  not  have  done  it  myself.  There 
is  nothing  just  like  it  in  the  literature  of  any  country 
or  of  any  epoch.  It  stands  alone ;  it  is  monumental. 
It  adds  G.  Ragsdale  McClintock's  to  the  sum  of  the 
republic's  imperishable  names. 


THE    CURIOUS    BOOK 

COMPLETE 

[The  foregoing  review  of  the  great  work  of  G.  Ragsdale 
McClintock  is  liberally  illuminated  with  sample  extracts,  but 
these  cannot  appease  the  appetite.  Only  the  complete  book, 
unabridged,  can  do  that.  Therefore  it  is  here  printed. — M.  T.] 

THE  ENEMY  CONQUERED;  OR,  LOVE 
TRIUMPHAN1 

Sweet  girl,  thy  smiles  are  full  of  charms, 

Thy  voice  is  sweeter  still, 
It  fills  the  breast  with  fond  ftlgmfut, 

Echoed  by  every  rill. 

1  BEGIN  this  little  work  with  an  eulogy  upon 
woman,  who  has  ever  been  distinguished  for  her 
perseverance,  her  constancy,  and  her  devoted  atten- 
tion to  those  upon  whom  she  has  been  pleased  to 
place  her  affections.  Many  have  been  the  themes 
upon  which  writers  and  public  speakers  have  dwelt 
with  intense  and  increasing  interest.  Among  these 
delightful  themes  stands  that  of  woman,  the  balm  to 
all  our  sighs  and  disappointments,  and  the  most  pre- 
eminent of  all  other  topics.  Here  the  poet  and 
orator  have  stood  and  gazed  with  wonder  and  with 
admiration;  they  have  dwelt  upon  her  innocence, 
the  ornament  of  all  her  virtues.  First  viewing  her 
external  charms,  such  as  are  set  forth  in  her  form 
123 


MARK    TWAIN 

and  her  benevolent  countenance,  and  then  passing 
to  the  deep  hidden  springs  of  loveliness  and  disinter- 
ested devotion.  In  every  clime,  and  in  every  age, 
she  has  been  the  pride  of  her  nation.  Her  watchful- 
ness is  untiring;  she  who  guarded  the  sepulcher  was 
the  first  to  approach  it,  and  the  last  to  depart  from 
its  awful  yet  sublime  scene.  Even  here,  in  this 
highly  favored  land,  we  look  to  her  for  the  security 
of  our  institutions,  and  for  our  future  greatness  as  a 
nation.  But,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  woman's 
charms  and  virtues  are  but  slightly  appreciated  by 
thousands.  Those  who  should  raise  the  standard  of 
female  worth,  and  paint  her  value  with  her  virtues, 
in  living  colors,  upon  the  banners  that  are  fanned 
by  the  zephyrs  of  heaven,  and  hand  them  down  to 
posterity  as  emblematical  of  a  rich  inheritance,  do 
not  properly  estimate  them. 

Man  is  not  sensible,  at  all  times,  of  the  nature  and 
the  emotions  which  bear  that  name;  he  does  not 
understand,  he  will  not  comprehend;  his  intelligence 
has  not  expanded  to  that  degree  of  glory  which 
drinks  in  the  vast  revolution  of  humanity,  its  end, 
its  mighty  destination,  and  the  causes  which  oper- 
ated, and  are  still  operating,  to  produce  a  more 
elevated  station,  and  the  objects  which  energize  and 
enliven  its  consummation.  This  he  is  a  stranger  to ; 
he  is  not  aware  that  woman  is  the  recipient  of  ce- 
lestial love,  and  that  man  is  dependent  upon  her  to 
perfect  his  character;  that  without  her,  philosophi- 
cally and  truly  speaking,  the  brightest  of  his  intelli- 
gence is  but  the  coldness  of  a  winter  moon,  whose 
beams  can  produce  no  fruit,  whose  solar  light  is  not 
124 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

its  own,  but  borrowed  from  the  great  dispenser  of 
effulgent  beauty.  We  have  no  disposition  in  the 
world  to  flatter  the  fair  sex,  we  would  raise  them 
above  those  dastardly  principles  which  only  exist  in 
little  souls,  contracted  hearts,  and  a  distracted 
brain.  Often  does  she  unfold  herself  in  all  her 
fascinating  loveliness,  presenting  the  most  capti- 
vating charms;  yet  we  find  man  frequently  treats 
such  purity  of  purpose  with  indifference.  Why  does 
he  do  it?  Why  does  he  baffle  that  which  is  in- 
evitably the  source  of  his  better  days?  Is  he  so  much 
of  a  stranger  to  those  excellent  qualities  as  not  to 
appreciate  woman,  as  not  to  have  respect  to  her 
dignity?  Since  her  art  and  beauty  first  captivated 
man,  she  has  been  his  delight  and  his  comfort ;  she  has 
shared  alike  in  his  misfortunes  and  in  his  prosperity. 
Whenever  the  billows  of  adversity  and  the  tu- 
multuous waves  of  trouble  beat  hgh,  her  smiles 
subdue  their  fury.  Should  the  tear  of  sorrow  and  the 
mournful  sigh  of  grief  interrupt  the  peace  of  his 
mind,  her  voice  removes  them  all,  and  she  bends 
from  her  circle  to  encourage  him  onward.  When 
darkness  wou  d  obscure  his  mind,  and  a  thick  cloud 
of  gloom  wou!4  bewilder  its  operations,  her  intelli- 
gent eye  darts  a  ray  of  streaming  light  into  his  heart. 
Mighty  and  charming  is  that  disinterested  devotion 
which  she  is  ever  ready  to  exercise  toward  man,  not 
waiting  till  the  last  moment  of  his  danger,  but  seeks 
to  relieve  him  in  his  early  afflictions.  It  gushes 
forth  from  the  expansive  fullness  of  a  tender  and 
devoted  heart,  where  the  noblest,  the  purest,  and  the 
most  elevated  and  refined  feelings  are  matured  and 
125 


MARK     TWAIN 

developed  in  those  many  kind  offices  which  invariably 
make  her  character. 

In  the  room  of  sorrow  and  sickness,  this  unequaled 
characteristic  may  always  be  seen,  in  the  performance 
of  the  most  charitable  acts ;  nothing  that  she  can  do 
to  promote  the  happiness  of  him  who  she  claims  to  be 
her  protector  will  be  omitted;  all  is  invigorated  by 
the  animating  sunbeams  which  awaken  the  heart  to 
songs  of  gaiety.  Leaving  this  point,  to  notice  an- 
other prominent  consideration,  which  is  generally  one 
of  great  moment  and  of  vital  importance.  Invari- 
ably she  is  firm  and  steady  in  all  her  pursuits  and 
aims.  There  is  required  a  combination  of  forces  and 
extreme  opposition  to  drive  her  from  her  position; 
she  takes  her  stand,  not  to  be  moved  by  the  sound 
of  Apollo's  lyre  or  the  curved  bow  of  pleasure. 

Firm  and  true  to  what  she  undertakes,  and  that 
which  she  requires  by  her  own  aggrandizement,  and 
regards  as  being  within  the  strict  rules  of  propriety, 
she  will  remain  stable  and  unflinching  to  the  last. 
A  more  genuine  principle  is  not  to  be  found  in  the 
most  determined,  resolute  heart  of  man.  For  this 
she  deserves  to  be  held  in  the  highest  commendation, 
for  this  she  deserves  the  purest  of  all  other  blessings, 
and  for  this  she  deserves  the  most  laudable  reward  of 
all  others.  It  is  a  noble  characteristic  and  is  worthy 
the  imitation  of  any  age.  And  when  we  look  at  it 
in  one  particular  aspect,  it  is  still  magnified,  and 
grows  brighter  and  brighter  the  more  we  reflect  upon 
its  eternal  duration.  What  will  she  not  do,  when  her 
word  as  well  as  her  affections  and  love  are  pledged  to 
her  lover?  Everything  that  is  dear  to  her  on  earth, 
126 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

all  the  hospitalities  of  kind  and  loving  parents,  all  the 
sincerity  and  loveliness  of  sisters,  and  the  benevolent 
devotion  of  brothers,  who  have  surrounded  her  with 
every  comfort;  she  will  forsake  them  all,  quit  the 
harmony  and  sweet  sound  of  the  lute  and  the  harp, 
and  throw  herself  upon  the  affections  of  some  devoted 
admirer,  in  whom  she  fondly  hopes  to  find  more  than 
she  has  left  behind,  which  is  not  often  realized  by 
many.  Truth  and  virtue  all  combined!  How  de- 
serving our  admiration  and  love !  Ah !  cruel  would  it 
be  in  man,  after  she  has  thus  manifested  such  an 
unshaken  confidence  in  him,  and  said  by  her  deter- 
mination to  abandon  all  the  endearments  and  bland- 
ishments of  home,  to  act  a  villainous  part,  and  prove 
a  traitor  in  the  revolution  of  his  mission,  and  then 
turn  Hector  over  the  innocent  victim  whom  he  swore 
to  protect,  in  the  presence  of  Heaven,  recorded  by 
the  pen  of  an  angel. 

Striking  as  this  trait  may  unfold  itself  in  her  char- 
acter, and  as  pre-eminent  as  it  may  stand  among  the 
fair  display  of  her  other  qualities,  yet  there  is  another, 
which  struggles  into  existence,  and  adds  an  additional 
luster  to  what  she  already  possesses.  I  mean  that 
disposition  in  woman  which  enables  her,  in  sorrow, 
in  grief,  and  in  distress,  to  bear  all  with  enduring 
patience.  This  she  has  done,  and  can  and  will  do, 
amid  the  din  of  war  and  clash  of  arms.  Scenes  and 
occurrences  which,  to  every  appearance,  are  calcu- 
lated to  rend  the  heart  with  the  profoundest  emotions 
of  trouble,  do  not  fetter  that  exalted  principle  imbued 
in  her  very  nature.  It  is  true,  her  tender  and  feeling 
heart  may  often  be  moved  (as  she  is  thus  consti- 
137 


MARK    TWAIN 

tuted),  but  still  she  is  not  conquered,  she  has  nofr 
given  up  to  the  harlequin  of  disappointments,  her 
energies  have  not  become  clouded  in  the  last  moment 
of  misfortune,  but  she  is  continually  invigorated  by 
the  archetype  of  her  affections  She  may  bury  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  let  the  tear  of  anguish  roll,  she 
may  promenade  the  delightful  walks  of  some  garden, 
decorated  with  all  the  flowers  of  nature,  or  she  may 
steal  out  along  some  gently  rippling  stream,  and 
there,  as  the  silver  waters  uninterruptedly  move  for- 
ward, shed  her  silent  tears;  they  mingle  with  the 
waves,  and  take  a  last  farewell  of  their  agitated  home, 
to  seek  a  peaceful  dwelling  among  the  rolling  floods ; 
yet  there  is  a  voice  rushing  from  her  breast,  that 
proclaims  victory  along  the  whole  line  and  battlement 
of  her  affections.  That  voice  is  the  voice  of  patience 
and  resignation;  that  voice  is  one  that  bears  every- 
thing calmly  and  dispassionately,  amid  the  most  dis- 
tressing scenes ;  when  the  fates  are  arrayed  against 
her  peace,  and  apparently  plotting  for  her  destruc- 
tion, still  she  is  resigned. 

Woman's  affections  are  deep,  consequently  her 
troubles  may  be  made  to  sink  deep.  Although  you 
may  not  be  able  to  mark  the  traces  of  her  grief  and 
the  furrowings  of  her  anguish  upon  her  winning 
countenance,  yet  be  assured  they  are  nevertheless 
preying  upon  her  inward  person,  sapping  the  very 
foundation  of  that  heart  which  alone  was  made  for 
the  weal  and  not  the  woe  of  man.  The  deep  recesses 
of  the  soul  are  fields  for  their  operation.  But  they 
are  not  destined  simply  to  take  the  regions  of  the 
heart  for  their  dominion,  they  are  not  satisfied 
128 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

merely  with  interrupting  her  better  feelings;  but 
after  a  while  you  may  see  the  blooming  cheek  be- 
ginning to  droop  and  fade,  her  intelligent  eye  no 
longer  sparkles  with  the  starry  light  of  heaven,  her 
vibrating  pulse  long  since  changed  its  regular  motion, 
and  her  palpitating  bosom  beats  once  more  for  the 
midday  of  her  glory.  Anxiety  and  care  ultimately 
throw  her  into  the  arms  of  the  haggard  and  grim 
monster  death.  But,  oh,  how  patient,  under  every 
pining  influence!  Let  us  view  the  matter  in  bolder 
colors;  see  her  when  the  dearest  object  of  her  affec- 
tions recklessly  seeks  every  bacchanalian  pleasure, 
contents  himself  with  the  last  rubbish  of  creation. 
With  what  solicitude  she  awaits  his  return !  Sleep  fails 
to  perform  its  office — she  weeps  while  the  nocturnal 
shades  of  the  night  triumph  in  the  stillness.  Bend- 
ing over  some  favorite  book,  whilst  the  author  throws 
before  her  mind  the  most  beautiful  imagery,  she 
startles  at  every  sound.  The  midnight  silence  is 
broken  by  the  solemn  announcement  of  the  return 
of  another  morning.  He  is  still  absent;  she  listens 
for  that  voice  which  has  so  often  been  greeted  by  the 
melodies  of  her  own;  but,  alas!  stern  silence  is  all 
that  she  receives  for  her  vigilance. 

Mark  her  unwearied  watchfulness,  as  the  night 
passes  away.  At  last,  brutalized  by  the  accursed 
thing,  he  staggers  along  with  rage,  and,  shivering 
with  cold,  he  makes  his  appearance.  Not  a  murmur 
is  heard  from  her  lips.  On  the  contrary,  she  meets 
him  with  a  smile — she  caresses  him  with  her  tender 
arms,  with  all  the  gentleness  and  softness  of  her  sex. 
Here,  then,  is  seen  her  disposition,  beautifully  ar- 
120 


MARK     TWAIN 

rayed.  Woman,  them  art  more  to  be  admired  than 
the  spicy  gales  of  Arabia,  and  more  sought  for  than 
the  gold  of  Golconda.  We  believe  that  Woman 
should  associate  freely  with  man,  and  we  believe  that 
it  is  for  the  preservation  of  her  rights.  She  should 
become  acquainted  with  the  metaphysical  designs  of 
those  who  condescend  to  sing  the  siren  song  of 
flattery.  This,  we  think,  should  be  according  to  the 
unwritten  law  of  decorum,  which  is  stamped  upon 
every  innocent  heart.  The  precepts  of  prudery  are 
often  steeped  in  the  guilt  of  contamination,  which 
blasts  the  expectations  of  better  moments.  Truth, 
and  beautiful  dreams — loveliness,  and  delicacy  of 
character,  with  cherished  affections  of  the  ideal 
woman — gentle  hopes  and  aspirations,  are  enough  to 
uphold  her  in  the  storms  of  darkness,  without  the 
transferred  colorings  of  a  stained  sufferer.  How 
often  have  we  seen  it  in  our  public  prints,  that  woman 
occupies  a  false  station  in  the  world !  and  some  have 
gone  so  far  as  to  say  it  was  an  unnatural  one.  So 
long  has  she  been  regarded  a  weak  creature,  by  the 
rabble  and  illiterate — they  have  looked  upon  her  as 
an  insufficient  actress  on  the  great  stage  of  human 
life — a  mere  puppet,  to  fill  up  the  drama  of  human 
existence — a  thoughtless,  inactive  being — that  she 
has  too  often  come  to  the  same  conclusion  herself, 
and  has  sometimes  forgotten  her  high  destination,  in 
the  meridian  of  her  glory.  We  have  but  little  sym- 
pathy or  patience  for  those  who  treat  her  as  a  mere 
Rosy  Melindi — who  are  always  fishing  for  pretty 
compliments — who  are  satisfied  by  the  gossamer  ot 
Romance,  and  who  can  be  allured  by  the  verbosity 
130 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

of  high-flown  words,  rich  in  language,  but  poor  and 
barren  in  sentiment.  Beset,  as  she  has  been,  by  the 
intellectual  vulgar,  the  selfish,  the  designing,  the 
cunning,  the  hidden,  and  the  artful — no  wonder  she 
has  sometimes  folded  her  wings  in  despair,  and  for- 
gotten her  heavenly  mission  in  the  delirium  of  imagi- 
nation ;  no  wonder  she  searches  out  some  wild  desert, 
to  find  a  peaceful  home.  But  this  cannot  always 
continue.  A  new  era  is  moving  gently  onward,  old 
things  are  rapidly  passing  away;  old  superstitions, 
old  prejudices,  and  old  notions  are  now  bidding  fare- 
well to  their  old  associates  and  companions,  and 
giving  way  to  one  whose  wings  are  plumed  with  the 
light  of  heaven  and  tinged  by  the  dews  of  the  morn- 
ing. There  is  a  remnant  of  blessedness  that  clings  to 
her  in  spite  of  all  evil  influence,  there  is  enough  of  the 
Divine  Master  left  to  accomplish  the  noblest  work 
ever  achieved  under  the  canopy  of  the  vaulted  skies; 
and  that  time  is  ^fast  approaching,  when  the  picture 
of  the  true  woman  will  shine  from  its  frame  of  glory, 
to  captivate,  to  win  back,  to  restore,  and  to  call  into 
being  once  more,  the  object  of  her  mission. 

Star  of  the  brave!  thy  glory  shed, 

O'er  all  the  earth,  thy  army  led — 

Bold  meteor  of  immortal  birth! 

Why  come  from  Heaven  to  dwell  on  Earth? 

Mighty  and  glorious  are  the  days  of  youth ;  happy 
the  moments  of  the  lover,  mingled  with  smiles  and 
tears  of  his  devoted,  and  long  to  be  remembered  are 
the  achievements  which  he  gains  with  a  palpitating 
heart  and  a  trembling  hand.  A  bright  and  lovely 
dawn,  the  harbinger  of  a  fair  and  prosperous  day, 
131 


MARK    TWAIN 

had  arisen  over  the  beautiful  little  village  of  Gum- 
ming, which  is  surrounded  by  the  most  romantic 
scenery  in  the  Cherokee  country.  Brightening  clouds 
seemed  to  rise  from  the  mist  of  the  fair  Chatta- 
hoochee,  to  spread  their  beauty  over  the  thick  forest, 
to  guide  the  hero  whose  bosom  beats  with  aspirations 
to  conquer  the  enemy  that  would  tarnish  his  name, 
and  to  win  back  the  admiration  of  his  long-tried 
friend.  He  endeavored  to  make  his  way  through 
Sawney's  Mountain,  where  many  meet  to  catch  the 
gales  that  are  continually  blowing  for  the  refresh- 
ment of  the  stranger  and  the  traveler.  Surrounded 
as  he  was  by  hills  on  every  side,  naked  rocks  dared 
the  efforts  of  his  energies.  Soon  the  sky  became 
overcast,  the  sun  buried  itself  in  the  clouds,  and  the 
fair  day  gave  place  to  gloomy  twilight,  which  lay 
heavily  on  the  Indian  Plains.  He  remembered  an 
old  Indian  Castle,  that  once  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain.  He  thought  if  he  could  make  his  way 
to  this,  he  would  rest  contented  for  a  short  time. 
The  mountain  air  breathed  fragrance — a  rosy  tinge 
rested  on  the  glassy  waters  that  murmured  at  its 
base.  His  resolution  soon  brought  him  to  the  re- 
mains of  the  red  man's  hut:  he  surveyed  with  wonder 
and  astonishment  the  decayed  building,  which  time 
had  buried  in  the  dust,  and  thought  to  himself,  his 
happiness  was  not  yet  complete.  Beside  the  shore 
of  the  brook  sat  a  young  man,  about  eighteen  or 
twenty,  who  seemed  to  be  reading  some  favorite 
book,  and  who  had  a  remarkably  noble  countenance 
— eyes  which  betrayed  more  than  a  common  mind. 
This  of  course  made  the  youth  a  welcome  guest,  and 
132 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

gained  him  friends  in  whatever  condition  of  life  he 
might  be  placed.  The  traveler  observed  that  he  was 
a  well-built  figure,  which  showed  strength  and  grace 
in  every  movement.  He  accordingly  addressed  him 
in  quite  a  gentlemanly  manner,  and  inquired  of  him 
the  way  to  the  village.  After  he  had  received  the 
desired  information,  and  was  about  taking  his  leave, 
the  youth  said,  "Are  you  not  Major  Elfonzo,  the 
great  musician — the  champion  of  a  noble  cause — the 
modern  Achilles,  who  gained  so  many  victories  in  the 
Florida  War?"  "I  bear  that  name,"  said  the  Major, 
"and  those  titles,  trusting  at  the  same  time  that  the 
ministers  of  grace  will  carry  me  triumphantly  through 
all  my  laudable  undertakings,  and  if,"  continued  the 
Major,  "you,  sir,  are  the  patronizer  of  noble  deeds, 
I  should  like  to  make  you  my  confidant  and  learn 
your  address. ' '  The  youth  looked  somewhat  amazed, 
bowed  low,  mused  for  a  moment,  and  began:  "My 
name  is  Roswell.  I  have  been  recently  admitted  to 
the  bar,  and  can  only  give  a  faint  outline  of  my  future 
success  in  that  honorable  profession ;  but  I  trust,  sir, 
like  the  Eagle,  I  shall  look  down  from  lofty  rocks 
upon  the  dwellings  of  man,  and  shall  ever  be  ready  to 
give  you  any  assistance  in  my  official  capacity,  and 
whatever  this  muscular  arm  of  mine  can  do,  when- 
ever it  shall  be  called  from  its  buried  greatness." 
The  Major  grasped  him  by  the  hand,  and  ex- 
claimed: "O!  thou  exalted  spirit  of  inspiration — thou 
flame  of  burning  prosperity,  may  the  Heaven-directed 
blaze  be  the  glare  of  thy  soul,  and  battle  down  every 
rampart  that  seems  to  impede  your  progress!" 
The  road  which  led  to  the  town  presented  many 
133 


MARK     TWAIN 

attractions.  Elfonzo  had  bid  farewell  to  the  youth 
of  deep  feeling,  and  was  now  wending  his  way  to  the 
dreaming  spot  of  his  fondness.  The  south  winds 
whistled  through  the  woods,  as  the  waters  dashed 
against  the  banks,  as  rapid  fire  in  the  pent  furnace 
roars.  This  brought  him  to  remember  while  alone, 
that  he  quietly  left  behind  the  hospitality  of  a 
father's  house,  and  gladly  entered  the  world,  with 
higher  hopes  than  are  often  realized.  But  as  he 
journeyed  onward,  he  was  mindful  of  the  advice  of 
his  father,  who  had  often  looked  sadly  on  the  ground 
when  tears  of  cruelly  deceived  hope  moistened  his 
eye.  Elfonzo  had  been  somewhat  of  a  dutiful  son; 
yet  fond  of  the  amusements  of  life — had  been  in 
distant  lands — had  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of  the 
world  and  had  frequently  returned  to  the  scenes  of 
his  boyhood,  almost  destitute  of  many  of  the  com- 
forts of  life.  In  this  condition,  he  would  frequently 
say  to  his"  father,  "Have  I  offended  you,  that  you 
look  upon  me  as  a  stranger,  and  frown  upon  me  with 
stinging  looks?  Will  you  not  favor  me  with  the 
sound  of  your  voice?  If  I  have  trampled  upon  your 
veneration,  or  have  spread  a  humid  veil  of  darkness 
around  your  expectations,  send  me  back  into  the 
world  where  no  heart  beats  for  me — where  the  foot 
of  man  has  never  yet  trod;  but  give  me  at  least  one 
kind  word — allow  me  to  come  into  the  presence  some- 
times of  thy  winter-worn  locks . "  "  Forbid  it ,  Heaven , 
that  I  should  be  angry  with  thee,"  answered  the 
father,  "my  son,  and  yet  I  send  thee  back  to  the 
children  of  the  world— to  the  cold  charity  of  the 
combat,  and  to  a  land  of  victory,  I  read  another 
134 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

destiny  in  thy  countenance — I  learn  thy  inclinations 
from  the  flame  that  has  already  kindled  in  my  soul 
a  strange  sensation.  It  will  seek  thee,  my  dear 
Eljonzo,  it  will  find  thee — thou  canst  not  escape  that 
lighted  torch,  which  shall  blot  out  from  the  remem- 
brance of  men  a  long  train  of  prophecies  which  they 
have  foretold  against  thee.  I  once  thought  not  so. 
Once,  I  was  blind;  but  now  the  path  of  life  is  plain 
before  me,  and  my  sight  is  clear;  yet  Elfonzo,  return 
to  thy  worldly  occupation — take  again  in  thy  hand 
that  chord  of  sweet  sounds — struggle  with  the  civil- 
ized world,  and  with  your  own  heart;  fly  swiftly  to 
the  enchanted  ground — let  the  mght-Owl  send  forth 
its  screams  from  the  stubborn  oak — let  the  sea  sport 
upon  the  beach,  and  the  stars  sing  together;  but  learn 
of  these,  Elfonzo,  thy  doom,  and  thy  hiding-place. 
Our  most  innocent  as  well  as  our  most  lawful  desires 
must  often  be  denied  us,  that  we  may  learn  to  sacri- 
fice them  to  a  Higher  will." 

Remembering  such  admonitions  with  gratitude, 
Elfonzo  was  immediately  urged  by  the  recollection 
of  his  father's  family  to  keep  moving.  His  steps 
became  quicker  and  quicker — he  hastened  through 
the  piny  woods,  dark  as  the  forest  was,  and  with  joy 
he  very  soon  reached  the  little  village  of  repose,  in 
whose  bosom  rested  the  boldest  chivalry.  His  close 
attention  to  every  important  object — his  modest  ques- 
tions about  whatever  was  new  to  him — his  reverence  for 
wise  old  age,  and  his  ardent  desire  to  learn  many  of 
the  fine  arts,  soon  brought  him  into  respectable  notice. 

One  mild  winter  day  as  he  walked  along  the  streets 
toward  the  Academy,  which  stood  upon  a  small 


MARK     TWAIN 

eminence,  surrounded  by  native  growth — some  ven- 
erable in  its  appearance,  others  young  and  prosperous 
— all  seemed  inviting,  and  seemed  to  be  the  very 
place  for  learning  as  well  as  for  genius  to  spend  its 
research  beneath  its  spreading  shades.  He  entered 
its  classic  walls  in  the  usual  mode  of  southern 
manners.  The  principal  of  the  Institution  begged 
him  to  be  seated  and  listen  to  the  recitations  that 
were  going  on.  He  accordingly  obeyed  the  request, 
and  seemed  to  be  much  pleased.  After  the  school 
was  dismissed,  and  the  young  hearts  regained  their 
freedom,  with  the  songs  of  the  evening,  laughing  at 
the  anticipated  pleasures  of  a  happy  home,  while 
others  tittered  at  the  actions  of  the  past  day,  he 
addressed  the  teacher  in  a  tone  that  indicated  a  reso- 
lution— with  an  undaunted  mind.  He  said  he  had 
determined  to  become  a  student,  if  he  could  meet 
with  his  approbation.  "Sir,"  said  he,  "I  have  spent 
much  time  in  the  world.  I  have  traveled  among  the 
uncivilized  inhabitants  of  America.  I  have  met 
with  friends,  and  combated  with  foes;  but  none  of 
these  gratify  my  ambition,  or  decide  what  is  to  be 
my  destiny.  I  see  the  learned  world  have  an  influ- 
ence with  the  voice  of  the  people  themselves.  The 
despoilers  of  the  remotest  kingdoms  of  the  earth 
refer  their  differences  to  this  class  of  persons.  This 
the  illiterate  and  inexperienced  little  dream  of;  and 
now  if  you  will  receive  me  as  I  am,  with  these  de- 
ficiencies— with  all  my  misguided  opinions,  I  will  give 
you  my  honor,  sir,  that  I  will  never  disgrace  the 
Institution,  or  those  who  have  placed  you  in  this 
honorable  station."  The  instructor,  who  had  met 
136 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

with  many  disappointments,  knew  how  to  feel  for 
a  stranger  who  had  been  thus  turned  upon  the 
charities  of  an  unfeeling  community.  He  looked  at 
him  earnestly,  and  said:  "Be  of  good  cheer — look 
forward,  sir,  to  the  high  destination  you  may  attain. 
Remember,  the  more  elevated  the  mark  at  which  you 
aim,  the  more  sure,  the  more  glorious,  the  more 
magnificent  the  prize."  From  wonder  to  wonder,  his 
encouragement  led  the  impatient  listener.  A  strange 
nature  bloomed  before  him — giant  streams  promised 
him  success — gardens  of  hidden  treasures  opened  tc 
his  view.  All  this,  so  vividly  described,  seemed  to 
gain  a  new  witchery  from  his  glowing  fancy. 

In  1842  he  entered  the  class,  and  made  rapid 
progress  in  the  English  and  Latin  departments. 
Indeed,  he  continued  advancing  with  such  rapidity 
that  he  was  like  to  become  the  first  in  his  class,  and 
made  such  unexpected  progress,  and  was  so  studious, 
that  he  had  almost  forgotten  the  pictured  saint  of 
his  affections.  The  fresh  wreaths  of  the  pine  and 
cypress  had  waited  anxiously  to  drop  once  more  the 
dews  of  Heaven  upon  the  heads  of  those  who  had  so 
often  poured  forth  the  tender  emotions  of  their  souls 
under  its  boughs.  He  was  aware  of  the  pleasure  that 
he  had  seen  there.  So  one  evening,  as  he  was  return- 
ing from  his  reading,  he  concluded  he  would  pay  a 
visit  to  this  enchanting  spot.  Little  did  he  think  of 
witnessing  a  shadow  of  his  former  happiness,  though 
no  doubt  he  wished  it  might  be  so.  He  continued 
sauntering  by  the  roadside,  meditating  on  the  past. 
The  nearer  he  approached  the  spot,  the  more  anxious 
he  became.  At  that  moment  a  tall  female  figure 


MARK    TWAIN 

flitted  across  his  path,  with  a  bunch  of  roses  in  her 
hand;  her  countenance  showed  uncommon  vivacity, 
with  a  resolute  spirit;  her  ivory  teeth  already  ap- 
peared as  she  smiled  beautifully,  promenading — 
while  her  ringlets  of  hair  dangled  unconsciously 
around  her  snowy  neck.  Nothing  was  wanting  to 
complete  her  beauty.  The  tinge  of  the  rose  was  in 
full  bloom  upon  her  cheek;  the  charms  of  sensibility 
and  tenderness  were  always  her  associates.  In  Am- 
bulinia's  bosom  dwelt  a  noble  soul — one  that  never 
faded — one  that  never  was  conquered.  Her  heart 
yielded  to  no  feeling  but  the  love  of  Elfonzo,  on  whom 
she  gazed  with  intense  delight,  and  to  whom  she  felt 
herself  more  closely  bound,  because  he  sought  the 
hand  of  no  other.  Elfonzo  was  roused  from  his 
apparent  reverie.  His  books  no  longer  were  his  in- 
separable companions — his  thoughts  arrayed  them- 
selves to  encourage  him  to  the  field  of  victory.  He 
endeavored  to  speak  to  his  supposed  Ambulinia,  but 
his  speech  appeared  not  in  words.  No,  his  effort  was 
a  stream  of  fire,  that  kindled  his  soul  into  a  flame  of 
admiration,  and  carried  his  senses  away  captive. 
Ambulinia  had  disappeared,  to  make  him  more  mind- 
ful of  his  duty.  As  she  walked  speedily  away  through 
the  piny  woods  she  calmly  echoed :  "  O !  Elfonzo,  thou 
wilt  now  look  from  thy  sunbeams.  Thou  shalt  now 
walk  in  a  new  path — perhaps  thy  way  leads  through 
darkness;  but  fear  not,  the  stars  foretell  happiness." 
Not  many  days  afterward,  as  surrounded  by  fra- 
grant flowers  she  sat  one  evening  at  twilight,  to 
enjoy  the  cool  breeze  that  whispered  notes  of  melody 
along  the  distant  groves,  the  little  birds  perched  on 
138 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

every  side,  as  if  to  watch  the  movements  of  their 
new  visitor.  The  bells  were  tolling  when  Elfonzo 
silently  stole  along  by  the  wild  wood  flowers,  holding 
in  his  hand  his  favorite  instrument  of  music — his 
eye  continually  searching  for  Ambulinia,  who  hardly 
seemed  to  perceive  him,  as  she  played  carelessly  with 
the  songsters  that  hopped  from  branch  to  branch. 
Nothing  could  be  more  striking  than  the  difference 
between  the  two.  Nature  seemed  to  have  given  the 
more  tender  soul  to  Elfonzo,  and  the  stronger  and 
more  courageous  to  Ambulinia.  A  deep  feeling  spoke 
from  the  eyes  of  Elfonzo — such  a  feeling  as  can  only 
be  expressed  by  those  who  are  blessed  as  admirers, 
and  by  those  who  are  able  to  return  the  same  with 
sincerity  of  heart.  He  was  a  few  years  older  than 
Ambulinia:  she  had  turned  a  little  into  her  seven- 
teenth. He  had  almost  grown  up  in  the  Cherokee 
country,  with  the  same  equal  proportions  as  one  of 
the  natives.  But  little  intimacy  had  existed  be- 
tween them  until  the  year  forty-one — because  the 
youth  felt  that  the  character  of  such  a  lovely  girl 
was  too  exalted  to  inspire  any  other  feeling  than  that 
of  quiet  reverence.  But  as  lovers  will  not  always  be 
insulted,  at  all  times  and  under  all  circumstances,  by 
the  frowns  and  cold  looks  of  crabbed  old  age,  which 
should  continually  reflect  dignity  upon  those  around, 
and  treat  the  unfortunate  as  well  as  the  fortunate 
.with  a  graceful  mien,  he  continued  to  use  diligence 
wid  perseverance.  All  this  lighted  a  spark  in  his 
heart  that  changed  his  whole  character,  and  like  the 
unyielding  Deity  that  follows  the  storm  to  check  its 
rage  in  the  forest,  he  resolves  for  the  first  time  to 


MARK    TWAIN 

shake  off  his  embarrassment  and  return  where  he 
had  before  only  worshiped. 

It  could  not  escape  Ambulinias  penetrating  eye 
that  he  sought  an  interview  with  her,  which  she  as 
anxiously  avoided,  and  assumed  a  more  distant  calm- 
ness than  before,  seemingly  to  destroy  all  hope. 
After  many  efforts  and  struggles  with  his  own  person, 
with  timid  steps  the  Major  approached  the  damsel, 
with  the  same  caution  as  he  would  have  done  in  a 
field  of  battle.  "Lady  Ambulinia,"  said  he,  trem- 
bling, "I  have  long  desired  a  moment  like  this.  I 
dare  not  let  it  escape.  I  fear  the  consequences;  yet 
I  hope  your  indulgence  will  at  least  hear  my  petition. 
Can  you  not  anticipate  what  I  would  say,  and  what 
I  am  about  to  express  ?  Will  not  you,  like  Minerva, 
who  sprung  from  the  brain  of  Jupiter,  release  me 
from  thy  winding  chains  or  cure  me — "  "Say  no 
more,  Elfonzo,"  answered  Ambulinia,  with  a  serious 
look,  raising  her  hand  as  if  she  intended  to  swear 
eternal  hatred  against  the  whole  world;  "another 
lady  in  my  place  would  have  perhaps  answered  your 
question  in  bitter  coldness.  I  know  not  the  little  arts 
of  my  sex.  I  care  but  little  for  the  vanity  of  those 
who  would  chide  me,  and  am  unwilling  as  well  as 
ashamed  to  be  guilty  of  anything  that  would  lead 
you  to  think  'all  is  not  gold  that  glitters';  so  be  not 
rash  in  your  resolution.  It  is  better  to  repent  now 
than  to  do  it  in  a  more  solemn  hour.  Yes,  I  know 
what  you  would  say.  I  know  you  have  a  costly  gift 
for  me — the  noblest  that  man  can  make — your  heart  f 
you  should  not  offer  it  to  one  so  unworthy.  Heaven, 
you  know,  has  allowed  my  father's  house  to  be  made 
140 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

a  house  of  solitude,  a  home  of  silent  obedience,  which 
my  parents  say  is  more  to  be  admired  than  big  names 
and  high-sounding  titles.  Notwithstanding  all  this, 
let  me  speak  the  emotions  of  an  honest  heart ;  allow 
me  to  say  in  the  fullness  of  my  hopes  that  I  anticipate 
better  days.  The  bird  may  stretch  its  wings  toward 
the  sun,  which  it  can  never  reach;  and  flowers  of  the 
field  appear  to  ascend  in  the  same  direction,  because 
they  cannot  do  otherwise;  but  man  confides  his  com- 
plaints to  the  saints  in  whom  he  believes;  for  in  their 
atx  des  of  1  ght  they  know  no  more  sorrow.  From 
your  confession  and  indicative  looks,  I  must  be  that 
person;  if  so,  deceive  not  yourself." 

Elfonzo  replied,  "Pardon  me,  my  dear  madam,  for 
my  frankness.  I  have  loved  you  from  my  earliest 
days;  everything  grand  and  beautiful  hath  borne  the 
image  of  Ambulinia;  while  precipices  on  every  hand 
surrounded  me,  your  guardian  angel  stood  and  beck- 
oned me  away  from  the  deep  abyss.  In  every  trial, 
in  every  misfortune,  I  have  met  with  your  helping 
hand;  yet  I  never  dreamed  or  dared  to  cherish  thy 
love  till  a  voice  impaired  with  age  encouraged  the 
cause,  and  declared  they  who  acquired  thy  favor 
should  win  a  victory.  I  saw  how  Leos  worshiped 
thee.  I  felt  my  own  unworthiness.  I  began  to 
know  jealousy — a  strong  guest,  indeed,  in  my  bosom 
— yet  I  could  see  if  I  gained  your  admiration  Leos 
was  to  be  my  riva .  I  was  aware  that  he  had  the 
influence  of  your  pa  ents,  and  the  wealth  of  a  de- 
ceased relative,  which  is  too  often  mistaken  for 
permanent  and  regular  tranquillity;  yet  I  have  de- 
termined by  your  permission  to  beg  an  interest  in 
141 


MARK    TWAIN 

your  prayers — to  ask  you  to  animate  my  drooping 
spirits  by  your  smiles  and  your  winning  looks;  for 
if  you  but  speak  I  shall  be  conqueror,  my  enemies 
shall  stagger  like  Olympus  shakes.  And  though 
earth  and  sea  may  tremble,  and  the  charioteer  of  the 
sun  may  forget  his  dashing  steed,  yet  I  am  assured 
that  it  is  only  to  arm  me  with  divine  weapons  which 
will  enable  me  to  complete  my  long-tried  intention." 
"Return  to  your  self,  Elfonzo,"  said  Ambulinia, 
pleasantly;  "a  dream  of  vision  has  disturbed  your 
intellect;  you  are  above  the  atmosphe  e,  dwelling 
in  the  celestial  regions ;  nothing  is  there  that  urges  or 
hinders,  nothing  that  brings  discord  into  our  present 
litigation.  I  entreat  you  to  condescend  a  little,  and 
be  a  man,  and  forget  it  all.  When  Homer  describes 
the  battle  of  the  gods  and  noble  men  fighting  with 
giants  and  dragons,  they  represent  under  this  image 
our  struggles  with  the  delusions  of  our  passions.  You 
have  exalted  me,  an  unhappy  girl,  to  the  skies;  you 
have  called  me  a  saint,  and  portrayed  in  your  im- 
agination an  angel  in  human  form.  Let  her  remain 
such  to  you,  let  her  continue  to  be  as  you  have 
supposed,  and  be  assured  that  she  will  consider  a 
share  in  your  esteem  as  her  highest  treasure.  Think 
not  that  I  would  allure  you  from  the  path  in  which 
your  conscience  leads  you;  for  you  know  I  respect  the 
conscience  of  others,  as  I  would  die  for  my  own. 
Elfonzo,  if  I  am  worthy  of  thy  love,  let  such  conver- 
sation never  again  pass  between  us.  Go,  seek  a 
nobler  theme !  we  will  seek  it  in  the  stream  of  time, 
as  the  sun  set  in  the  Tigris."  As  she  spake  these 
words  she  grasped  the  hand  of  Elfonzo,  saying  at  the 
142 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

same  time,  "Peace  and  prosperity  attend  you,  my 
hero:  be  up  and  doing!'  Closing  her  remarks  with 
this  expression,  she  walked  slowly  away,  leaving 
Elfonzo  astonished  and  amazed.  He  ventured  not 
to  follow  or  detain  her.  Here  he  stood  alone,  gazing 
at  the  stars;  confounded  as  he  was,  here  he  stood. 
The  rippling  stream  rolled  on  at  his  feet.  Twilight 
had  already  begun  to  draw  her  sable  mantle  over  the 
earth,  and  now  and  then  the  fiery  smoke  would 
ascend  from  the  little  town  which  lay  spread  out 
before  him.  The  citizens  seemed  to  be  full  of  life 
and  good-humor;  but  poor  Elfonzo  saw  not  a  brilliant 
scene.  No;  his  future  life  stood  before  him,  stripped 
of  the  hopes  that  once  adorned  all  his  sanguine 
desires.  "Alas!"  said  he,  "am  I  now  Grief's  dis- 
appointed son  at  last."  Ambulinia's  image  rose 
before  his  fancy.  A  mixture  of  ambition  and  great- 
ness of  soul  moved  upon  his  young  heart,  and  encour- 
aged him  to  bear  all  his  cro-jses  with  the  patience  of 
a  Job,  notwithstanding  he  had  to  encounter  with  so 
many  obstacles.  He  still  endeavored  to  prosecute 
his  studies,  and  reasonably  progressed  in  his  educa- 
tion. Still,  he  was  not  cor  tent;  there  was  something 
yet  to  be  done  before  his  happiness  was  complete. 
He  would  visit  his  friends  and  acquaintances.  They 
would  invite  him  to  social  parties,  insisting  that  he 
should  partake  of  the  amusements  that  were  going 
on.  This  he  enjoyed  tolerably  well.  The  ladies  and 
gentlemen  were  generally  well  pleased  with  the 
Major;  as  he  delighted  all  with  his  violin,  which 
seemed  to  have  a  thousand  chords — more  symphoni- 
ous  than  the  Muses  of  Apollo  and  more  enchanting 


MARK    TWAIN 

than  the  ghost  of  the  Hills.  He  passed  some  days 
in  the  country.  During  that  time  Leos  had  made 
many  calls  upon  Ambulinia,  who  was  generally  re- 
ceived with  a  great  deal  of  courtesy  by  the  family. 
They  thought  him  to  be  a  young  man  worthy  of 
attention,  though  he  had  but  little  in  his  soul  to 
attract  the  attention  or  even  win  the  affections  of 
her  whose  graceful  manners  had  almost  made  him  a 
slave  to  every  bewitching  look  that  fe  1  from  her  eyes. 
Leos  made  several  attempts  to  tell  her  of  his  fair 
prospects — how  much  he  loved  her,  and  how  much 
it  would  add  to  his  bliss  if  he  could  but  think  she 
would  be  willing  to  share  these  blessings  with  him; 
but,  choked  by  his  undertaking,  he  made  himself 
more  like  an  inactive  drone  than  he  did  like  one  who 
bowed  at  beauty's  shrine. 

Elfonzo  again  wends  his  way  to  the  stately  walls 
and  new-built  village.  He  now  determines  to  see  the 
end  of  the  prophecy  which  had  been  foretold  to  him. 
The  clouds  burst  from  his  sight ;  be  believes  if  he  can 
but  see  his  Ambulinia,  he  can  open  to  her  view  the 
bloody  altars  that  have  been  misrepresented  to  stig- 
matize his  name.  He  knows  that  her  breast  is  trans- 
fixed with  the  sword  of  reason,  and  ready  at  all  times 
to  detect  the  hidden  villainy  of  her  enemies.  He 
resolves  to  see  her  in  her  own  home,  with  the  con- 
soling theme:  "'I  can  but  perish  if  I  go.'  Let  the 
consequences  be  what  they  may,"  said  he,  "if  I  die, 
it  shall  be  contending  and  struggling  for  my  own 
rights." 

Night  had  almost  overtaken  him  when  he  arrived 
in  town.  Colonel  Elder,  a  noble  -  hearted,  high- 
144 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

minded,  and  independent  man,  met  him  at  his  door 
as  usual,  and  seized  him  by  the  hand.  "Well,  El- 
fonzo,"  said  the  Colonel,  "how  does  the  world  use 
you  in  your  efforts?"  "I  have  no  objection  to  the 
world,"  said  Elfonzo,  "but  the  people  are  rather 
singular  in  some  of  their  opinions."  "Aye,  well," 
said  the  Colonel,  "you  must  remember  that  creation 
is  made  up  of  many  mysteries;  just  take  things  by 
the  right  handle;  be  always  sure  you  know  which  is 
the  smooth  side  before  you  attempt  your  polish;  be 
reconciled  to  your  fate,  be  it  what  it  may;  and  never 
find  fault  with  your  condition,  unless  your  complain- 
ing will  benefit  it.  Perseverance  is  a  principle  that 
should  be  commendable  in  those  who  have  judgment 
to  govern  it.  I  should  never  have  been  so  successful 
in  my  hunting  excursions  had  I  waited  till  the  deer, 
by  some  magic  dream,  had  been  drawn  to  the  muzzle 
of  the  gun  before  I  made  an  attempt  to  fire  at  the 
game  that  dared  my  boldness  in  the  wild  forest. 
The  great  mystery  in  hunting  seems  to  be — a  good 
marksman,  a  resolute  mind,  a  fixed  determination, 
and  my  word  for  it,  you  will  never  return  home  with- 
out sounding  your  horn  with  the  breath  of  a  new 
victory.  And  so  with  every  other  undertaking.  Be 
confident  that  your  ammunition  is  of  the  right  kind — 
always  pull  your  trigger  with  a  steady  hand,  and  so 
soon  as  you  perceive  a  calm,  touch  her  off,  and  the 
spoils  are  yours." 

This  filled  him  with  redoubled  vigor,  and  he  set 

out  with  a  stronger  anxiety  than  ever  to  the  home 

of  Ambulinia.     A  few  short  steps  soon  brought  him 

to  the  door,  half  out  of  breath.     He  rapped  gently. 

US 


MARK    TWAIN 

'Ambulinia,  who  sat  in  the  parlor  alone,  suspecting 
Elfonzo  was  near,  ventured  to  the  door,  opened  it, 
and  beheld  the  hero,  who  stood  in  an  humble  atti- 
tude, bowed  gracefully,  and  as  they  caught  each 
other's  looks  the  light  of  peace  beamed  from  the  eyes 
of  Ambulinia.  Elfonzo  caught  the  expression ;  a  hal- 
loo of  smothered  shouts  ran  through  every  vein, 
and  for  the  first  time  he  dared  to  impress  a  kiss  upon 
her  cheek.  The  scene  was  overwhelming;  had  the 
temptation  been  less  animating,  he  would  not  have 
ventured  to  have  acted  so  contrary  to  the  desired 
wish  of  his  Ambulinia;  but  who  could  have  withstood 
the  irresistible  temptation !  What  society  condemns 
the  practice  but  a  cold,  heartless,  uncivilized  people 
that  know  nothing  of  the  warm  attachments  of  re- 
fined society  ?  Here  the  dead  was  raised  to  his  long- 
cherished  hopes,  and  the  lost  was  found.  Here  all 
doubt  and  danger  were  buried  in  the  vortex  of 
oblivion;  sectional  differences  no  longer  disunited 
their  opinions;  like  the  freed  bird  from  the  cage, 
sportive  claps  its  rustling  wings,  wheels  about  to 
heaven  in  a  joyful  strain,  and  raises  its  notes  to  the 
upper  sky.  Ambulinia  insisted  upon  Elfonzo  to  be 
seated,  and  give  her  a  history  of  his  unnecessary 
absence;  assuring  him  the  family  had  retired,  conse- 
quently they  would  ever  remain  ignorant  of  his  visit. 
Advancing  toward  him,  she  gave  a  bright  display  of 
her  rosy  neck,  and  from  her  head  the  ambrosial 
locks  breathed  divine  fragrance;  her  robe  hung 
waving  to  his  view,  while  she  stood  like  a  goddess 
confessed  before  him. 

"It  does  seem  to  me,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Ambulinia, 
146 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

"that  you  have  been  gone  an  age.  Oh,  the  restless 
hours  I  have  spent  since  I  last  saw  you,  in  yon 
beautiful  grove.  There  is  where  I  trifled  with  your 
feelings  for  the  express  purpose  of  trying  your 
attachment  for  me.  I  now  find  you  are  devoted; 
but  ah !  I  trust  you  live  not  unguarded  by  the  pow- 1 
ers  of  Heaven.  Though  oft  did  I  refuse  to  join  my  | 
hand  with  thine,  and  as  oft  did  I  cruelly  mock  thy 
entreaties  with  borrowed  shapes:  yes,  I  feared  to 
answer  thee  by  terms,  in  words  sincere  and  undis- 
sembled.  O !  could  I  pursue,  and  you  had  leisure  to 
hear  the  annals  of  my  woes,  the  evening  star  would 
shut  Heaven's  gates  upon  the  impending  day  before 
my  tale  would  be  finished,  and  this  night  would  find 
me  soliciting  your  forgiveness." 

"Dismiss    thy   fears   and    thy    doubts,"    replied. 
Elfonzo. 

"Look,  O!  look:  that  angelic  look  of  thine— bathe 
not  thy  visage  in  tears;  banish  those  floods  that  are 
gathering;  let  my  confession  and  my  presence  bring 
thee  some  relief."  "Then,  indeed,  I  will  be  cheer- 
ful," said  Ambulinia,  "and  I  think  if  we  will  go  to 
the  exhibition  this  evening,  we  certainly  will  see 
something  worthy  of  our  attention.  One  of  the  most 
tragical  scenes  is  to  be  acted  that  has  ever  been 
witnessed,  and  one  that  every  jealous-hearted  person 
should  learn  a  lesson  from.  It  cannot  fail  to  have 
a  good  effect,  as  it  will  be  performed  by  those  who 
are  young  and  vigorous,  and  learned  as  well  as 
enticing.  You  are  aware,  Major  Elfonzo,  who  are 
to  appear  on  the  stage,  and  what  the  characters  are 
to  represent."  "I  am  acquainted  with  the  circum-, 
147 


MARK    TWAIN 

stances,"  replied  Elfonzo,  "and  as  I  am  to  be  one 
of  the  musicians  upon  that  interesting  occasion,  I 
should  be  much  gratified  if  you  would  favor  me  with 
your  company  during  the  hours  of  the  exercises." 

"What  strange  notions  are  in  your  mind?"  inquired 
Ambulinia.  "Now  I  know  you  have  something  in 
view,  and  I  desire  you  to  tell  me  why  it  is  that  you 
are  so  anxious  that  I  should  continue  with  you  while 
the  exercises  are  going  on;  though  if  you  think  I  can 
add  to  your  happiness  and  predilections,  I  have  no 
particular  objection  to  acquiesce  in  your  request. 
Oh,  I  think  I  foresee,  now,  what  you  anticipate." 
"And  will  you  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me  what 
you  think  it  to  be?"  inquired  Elfonzo.  "By  all 
means,"  answered  Ambulinia;  "a  rival,  sir,  you  would 
fancy  in  your  own  mind;  but  let  me  say  to  you,  fear 
not!  fear  not!  I  will  be  one  of  the  last  persons  to 
disgrace  my  sex  by  thus  encouraging  every  one  who 
may  feel  disposed  to  visit  me,  who  may  honor  me 
with  their  graceful  bows  and  their  choicest  compli- 
ments. It  is  true  that  young  men  too  often  mistake 
civil  politeness  for  the  finer  emotions  of  the  heart, 
which  is  tantamount  to  courtship;  but,  ah!  how  often 
are  they  deceived,  when  they  come  to  test  the  weight 
of  sunbeams  with  those  on  whose  strength  hangs  the 
future  happiness  of  an  untried  life." 

The  people  were  now  rushing  to  the  Academy  with 
impatient  anxiety;  the  band  of  music  was  closely 
followed  by  the  students;  then  the  parents  and 
guardians;  nothing  interrupted  the  glow  of  spirits 
which  ran  through  every  bosom,  tinged  with  the 
songs  of  a  Virgil  and  the  tide  of  a  Homer.  Elfonzo 
148 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

and  Ambulinia  soon  repaired  to  the  scene,  and  fortu- 
nately for  them  both  the  house  was  so  crowded  that 
they  took  their  seats  together  in  the  music  depart- 
ment, which  was  not  in  view  of  the  auditory.  This 
fortuitous  circumstance  added  more  to  the  bliss  of 
the  Major  than  a  thousand  such  exhibitions  would 
have  done.  He  forgot  that  he  was  man;  music  had 
lost  its  charms  for  him;  whenever  he  attempted  to 
carry  his  part,  the  string  of  the  instrument  would 
break,  the  bow  became  stubborn,  and  refused  to  obey 
the  loud  calls  of  the  audience.  Here,  he  said,  was 
the  paradise  of  his  home,  the  long-sought-for  oppor- 
tunity; he  felt  as  though  he  could  send  a  million 
supplications  to  the  throne  of  Heaven  for  such  an 
exalted  privilege.  Poor  Leos,  who  was  somewhere 
in  the  crowd,  looking  as  attentively  as  if  he  was 
searching  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack;  here  he  stood, 
wondering  to  himself  why  Ambulinia  was  not  there. 
" Where  can  she  be?  Oh!  if  she  was  only  here, how 
I  could  relish  the  scene !  Elf onzo  is  certainly  not  in 
town;  but  what  if  he  is?  I  have  got  the  wealth,  if 
I  have  not  the  dignity,  and  I  am  sure  that  the  squire 
and  his  lady  have  always  been  particular  friends  of 
mine,  and  I  think  with  this  assurance  I  shall  be  able 
to  get  upon  the  blind  side  of  the  rest  of  the  family 
and  make  the  heaven-born'  Ambulinia  the  mistress 
of  all  I  possess."  Then,  again,  he  would  drop  his 
head,  as  if  attempting  to  solve  the  most  difficult 
problem  in  Euclid.  While  he  was  thus  conjecturing 
in  his  own  mind,  a  very  interesting  part  of  the  ex- 
hibition was  going  on,  which  called  the  attention  of 
all  present.  The  curtains  of  the  stage  waved  con- 
149 


MARK    TWAIN 

'tinually  by  the  repelled  forces  that  were  given  to 
them,  which  caused  Leos  to  behold  Ambulinia  lean- 
ing upon  the  chair  of  Elfonzo.  Her  lofty  beauty, 
seen  by  the  glimmering  of  the  chandelier,  filled  his 
heart  with  rapture,  he  knew  not  how  to  contain  him- 
self; to  go  where  they  were  would  expose  him  to 
ridicule;  to  continue  where  he  was,  with  such  an 
object  before  him,  without  being  allowed  an  explana- 
tion in  that  trying  hour,  would  be  to  the  great  injury 
of  his  mental  as  well  as  of  his  physical  powers;  and, 
in  the  name  of  high  heaven,  what  must  he  do? 
Finally,  he  resolved  to  contain  himself  as  well  as  he 
conveniently  could,  until  the  scene  was  over,  and 
then  he  would  plant  himself  at  the  door,  to  arrest 
Ambulinia  from  the  hands  of  the  insolent  Elfonzo, 
and  thus  make  for  himself  a  more  prosperous  field  of 
immortality  than  ever  was  decreed  by  Omnipotence, 
or  ever  pencil  drew  or  artist  imagined.  Accordingly 
he  made  himself  sentinel,  immediately  after  the  per- 
formance of  the  evening — retained  his  position  ap- 
parently in  defiance  of  all  the  world;  he  waited,  he 
gazed  at  every  lady,  his  whole  frame  trembled ;  here 
he  stood,  until  everything  like  human  shape  had  dis- 
appeared from  the  institution,  and  he  had  done 
nothing;  he  had  failed  to  accomplish  that  which  he 
so  eagerly  sought  for.  Poor,  unfortunate  creature! 
he  had  not  the  eyes  of  an  Argus,  or  he  might  have 
seen  his  Juno  and  Elfonzo,  assisted  by  his  friend 
Sigma,  make  their  escape  from  the  window,  and,  with 
the  rapidity  of  a  race-horse,  hurry  through  the  blast 
of  the  storm  to  the  residence  of  her  father,  with- 
out being  recognized.  He  did  not  tarry  long,  but 
150 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

assured  Ambulinia  the  endless  chain  of  their  existence' 
was  more  closely  connected  than  ever,  since  he  had 
seen  the  virtuous,  innocent,  imploring,  and  the  con- 1 
stant  Amelia  murdered  by  the  jealous-hearted. 
Farcillo,  the  accursed  of  the  land. 

The  following  is  the  tragical  scene,  which  is  only' 
introduced  to  show  the  subject-matter  that  enabled 
Elfonzo  to  come  to  such  a  determinate  resolution 
that  nothing  of  the  kind  should  ever  dispossess  him 
of  his  true  character,  should  he  be  so  fortunate  as  to, 
succeed  in  his  present  undertaking. 

Amelia  was  the  wife  of  Farcillo,  and  a  virtuous' 
woman;  Gracia,  a  young  lady,  was  her  particular 
friend  and  confidant.  Farcillo  grew  jealous  of  Amelia, 
murders  her,  finds  out  that  he  was  deceived,  and  stabs 
himself.  Amelia  appears  alone,  talking  to  herself. 

A.  Hail,  ye  solitary  ruins  of  antiquity,  ye  sacred 
tombs  and  silent  walks!  it  is  your  aid  I  invoke;  it  is 
to  you,  my  soul,  wrapt  in  deep  meditation,  pours 
forth  its  prayer.  Here  I  wander  upon  the  stage  of 
mortality,  since  the  world  hath  turned  against  me. 
Those  whom  I  believed  to  be  my  friends,  alas!  are 
now  my  enemies,  planting  thorns  in  all  my  paths, 
poisoning  all  my  pleasures,  and  turning  the  past  to 
pain.  What  a  lingering  catalogue  of  sighs  and  tears 
lies  just  before  me,  crowding  my  aching  bosom  with 
the  fleeting  dream  of  humanity,  which  must  shortly 
terminate.  And  to  what  purpose  will  all  this  bustle 
of  life,  these  agitations  and  emotions  of  the  heart 
have  conduced,  if  it  leave  behind  it  nothing  of  utility, 
if  it  leave  no  traces  of  improvement  ?  Can  it  be  that 
I  am  deceived  in  my  conclusions?  No,  I  see  that  I 


MARK    TWAIN 

have  nothing  to  hope  for,  but  everything  to  fear, 
which  tends  to  drive  me  from  the  walks  of  time. 

Oh !  in  this  dead  night,  if  loud  winds  arise, 
To  lash  the  surge  and  bluster  in  the  skies, 
May  the  west  its  furious  rage  display, 
Toss  me  with  storms  in  the  watery  way. 

(Enter  Gracia.) 

G.  Oh,  Amelia,  is  it  you,  the  object  of  grief,  the 
daughter  of  opulence,  of  wisdom  and  philosophy,  that 
thus  complaineth?  It  cannot  be  you  are  the  child  of 
misfortune,  speaking  of  the  monuments  of  former 
ages,  which  were  allotted  not  for  the  reflection  of  the 
distressed,  but  for  the  fearless  and  bold. 

A.  Not  the  child  of  poverty,  Gracia,  or  the  heir 
of  glory  and  peace,  but  of  fate.  Remember,  I  have 
wealth  more  than  wit  can  number;  I  have  had  power 
more  than  kings  could  encompass;  yet  the  world 
seems  a  desert;  all  nature  appears  an  afflictive  spec- 
tacle of  warring  passions.  This  blind  fatality,  that 
capriciously  sports  with  the  rules  and  lives  of  mortals, 
tells  me  that  the  mountains  will  never  again  send 
forth  the  water  of  their  springs  to  my  thirst.  Oh, 
that  I  might  be  freed  and  set  at  liberty  from  wretch- 
edness! But  I  fear,  I  fear  this  will  never  be. 

G.  Why,  Amelia,  this  untimely  grief?  What  has 
caused  the  sorrows  that  bespeak  better  and  happier 
days,  to  thus  lavish  out  such  heaps  of  misery?  You 
are  aware  that  your  instructive  lessons  embellish  the 
mind  with  holy  truths,  by  wedding  its  attention  to 
none  but  great  and  noble  affections. 

A.  This,  of  course,  is  some  consolation.  I  will 
ever  love  my  own  species  with  feelings  of  a  fond 
152 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

recollection,  and  while  I  am  studying  to  advance  the 
universal  philanthropy,  and  the  spotless  name  of 
my  own  sex,  I  will  try  to  build  my  own  upon  the 
pleasing  belief  that  I  have  accelerated  the  advance- 
ment of  one  who  whispers  of  departed  confidence. 

And  I,  like  some  poor  peasant  fated  to  reside 

Remote  from  friends,  in  a  forest  wide. 
Oh,  see  what  woman's  woes  and  human  wants  require. 
Since  that  great  day  hath  spread  the  seed  of  sinful  fire. 

G.  Look  up,  thou  poor  disconsolate;  you  speak  of 
quitting  earthly  enjoyments.  Unfold  thy  bosom  to 
a  friend,  who  would  be  willing  to  sacrifice  every 
enjoyment  for  the  restoration  of  that  dignity  and 
gentleness  of  mind  which  used  to  grace  your  walks, 
and  which  is  so  natural  to  yourself;  not  only  that, 
but  your  paths  were  strewed  with  flowers  of  every 
hue  and  of  every  order. 

With  verdant  green  the  mountains  glow, 
For  thee,  for  thee,  the  lilies  grow; 
Far  stretched  beneath  the  tented  hills, 
A  fairer  flower  the  valley  fills. 

A.  Oh,  would  to  Heaven  I  could  give  you  a  short 
narrative  of  my  former  prospects  for  happiness,  since 
you  have  acknowledged  to  be  an  unchangeable  con- 
fidant— the  richest  of  all  other  blessings.  Oh,  ye 
names  forever  glorious,  ye  celebrated  scenes,  ye  re- 
nowned spot  of  my  hymeneal  moments;  how  replete 
is  your  chart  with  sublime  reflections!  How  many 
profound  vows,  decorated  with  immaculate  deeds, 
are  written  upon  the  surface  of  that  precious  spot 
of  earth  where  I  yielded  up  my  life  of  celibacy,  bade 
youth  with  all  its  beauties  a  final  adieu,  took  a  last 


MARK    TWAIN 

farewell  of  the  laurels  that  had  accompanied  me  up 
the  hill  of  my  juvenile  career.  It  was  then  I  began 
to  descend  toward  the  valley  of  disappointment  and 
sorrow;  it  was  then  I  cast  my  little  bark  upon  a 
mysterious  ocean  of  wedlock,  with  him  who  then 
smiled  and  caressed  me,  but,  alas!  now  frowns  with 
bitterness,  and  has  grown  jealous  and  cold  toward 
me,  because  the  ring  he  gave  me  is  misplaced  or  lost. 
Oh,  bear  me,  ye  flowers  of  memory,  softly  through 
the  eventful  history  of  past  times ;  and  ye  places  that 
have  witnessed  the  progression  of  man  in  the  circle 
of  so  many  societies,  and,  oh,  aid  my  recollection, 
while  I  endeavor  to  trace  the  vicissitudes  of  a  life 
devoted  in  endeavoring  to  comfort  him  that  I  claim 
as  the  object  of  my  wishes. 

Ah!  ye  mysterious  men,  of  all  the  world,  how  few 
Act  just  to  Heaven  and  to  your  promise  true! 
But  He  who  guides  the  stars  with  a  watchful  eye, 
The  deeds  of  men  lay  open  without  disguise; 
Oh,  this  alone  will  avenge  the  wrongs  I  bear, 
For  all  the  oppressed  are  His  peculiar  care. 

(F.  makes  a  slight  noise.) 

A.  Who  is  there— Farcillo? 

G.  Then  I  must  be  gone.  Heaven  protect  you. 
Oh,  Amelia,  farewell,  be  of  good  cheer. 

May  you  stand,  like  Olympus'  towers, 
Against  earth  and  all  jealous  powers! 
May  you,  with  loud  shouts  ascend  on  high 
Swift  as  an  eagle  in  the  upper  sky. 

A.  Why  so  cold  and  distant  to-night,  Farcillo ? 
Come,  let  us  each  other  greet,  and  forget  all  the  past, 
and  give  security  for  the  future. 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

F.  Security!  talk  to  me  about  giving  security  for 
the  future — what  an  insulting  requisition !  Have  you 
said  your  prayers  to-night,  Madam  Amelia? 

A.  Farcillo,  we  sometimes  forget  our  duty,  parti- 
cularly when  we  expect  to  be  caressed  by  others. 

F.  If  you  bethink  yourself  of  any  crime,  or  of  any 
fault,  that  is  yet  concealed  from  the  courts  of 
Heaven  and  the  thrones  of  grace,  I  bid  you  ask  and 
solicit  forgiveness  for  it  now. 

A.  Oh,  be  land,  Farcillo,  don't  treat  me  so.  What 
do  you  mean  by  all  this? 

F.  Be  kind,  you  say;  you,  madam,  have  forgot 
that  kindness  you  owe  to  me,  and  bestowed  it  upon 
another;  you  shall  suffer  for  your  conduct  when  you 
make  your  peace  with  your  God.  I  would  not  slay 
thy  unprotected  spirit.  I  call  to  Heaven  to  be  my 
guard  and  my  watch — I  would  not  kill  thy  soul,  in 
which  all  once  seemed  just,  right,  and  perfect;  but  I 
must  be  brief,  woman. 

A.  What,  talk  you  of  killing?  Oh,  Farcillo,  Far- 
cillo, what  is  the  matter? 

F.  Aye,  I  do,  without  doubt;  mark  what  I  say, 
Amelia. 

A.  Then,  O  God,  O  Heaven,  and  Angels,  be  pro- 
pitious, and  have  mercy  upon  me. 

F.  Amen  to  that,  madam,  with  all  my  heart,  and 
with  all  my  soul. 

A.  Farcillo,  listen  to  me  one  moment;  I  hope  you 
will  not  kill  me. 

F.  Kill  you,  aye,  that  I  will;  attest  it,  ye  fair  host 
of  light,  record  it,  ye  dark  imps  of  hell! 

A.  Oh,  I  fear  you — you  are  fatal  when  darkness 


MARK    TWAIN 

covers  your  brow;  yet  I  know  not  why  I  should  fear, 
since  I  never  wronged  you  in  all  my  life.  I  stand, 
sir,  guiltless  before  you. 

F.  You  pretend  to  say  you  are  guiltless!  Think 
of  thy  sins,  Amelia;  think,  oh,  think,  hidden  woman. 

A.  Wherein  have  I  not  been  true  to  you?  That 
death  is  unkind,  cruel,  and  unnatural,  that  kills  for 
loving. 

F.  Peace,  and  be  still  while  I  unfold  to  thee. 

A.  I  will,  Farcillo,  and  while  I  am  thus  silent, 
tell  me  the  cause  of  such  cruel  coldness  in  an  hour 
like  this. 

F.  That  ring,  oh,  that  ring  I  so  loved,  and  gave 
thee  as  the  ring  of  my  heart ;  the  allegiance  you  took 
to  be  faithful,  when  it  was  presented;  the  kisses  and 
smiles  with  which  you  honored  it.  You  became  tired 
of  the  donor,  despised  it  as  a  plague,  and  finally  gave 
it  to  Malos,  the  hidden,  the  vile  traitor. 

A.  No,  upon  my  word  and  honor,  I  never  did;  I 
appeal  to  the  Most  High  to  bear  me  out  in  this 
matter.  Send  for  Malos,  and  ask  him. 

F.  Send  for  Malos,  aye!  Malos  you  wish  to  see; 
I  thought  so.  I  knew  you  could  not  keep  his  name 
concealed.  Amelia,  sweet  Amelia,  take  heed,  take 
heed  of  perjury;  you  are  on  the  stage  of  death,  to 
suffer  for  your  sins. 

A.  What,  not  to  die  I  hope,  my  Farcillo,  my  ever 
beloved. 

F.  Yes,  madam,  to  die  a  traitor's  death.    Shortly 

your  spirit  shall  take   its   exit;    therefore  confess 

freely  thy  sins,  for  to  deny  tends  only  to  make  me 

groan  under  the  bitter  cup  thou  hast  made  for  me. 

156 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

Thou  art  to  die  with  the  name  of  traitor  on  thy 
brow! 

A.  Then,  O  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  me;  give  me 
courage,  give  me  grace  and  fortitude  to  stand  this 
hour  of  trial. 

F.  Amen,  I  say,  with  all  my  heart. 

A.  And,  oh,  Farcillo,  will  you  have  mercy,  too?  I 
never  intentionally  offended  you  in  all  my  life;  never 
loved  Malos,  never  gave  him  cause  to  think  so,  as  the 
high  court  of  Justice  will  acquit  me  before  its  tribunal. 

F.  Oh,  false,  perjured  woman,  thou  dost  chill  my 
blood,  and  makest  me  a  demon  like  thyself.  I  saw 
the  ring. 

A.  He  found  it,  then,  or  got  it  clandestinely;  send 
for  him,  and  let  him  confess  the  truth;  let  his  con- 
fession be  sifted. 

F.  And  you  still  wish  to  see  him!  I  tell  you, 
madam,  he  hath  already  confessed,  and  thou  knowest 
the  darkness  of  thy  heart. 

A.  What,  my  deceived  Farcillo,  that  I  gave  him 
the  ring,  in  which  all  my  affections  were  concen- 
trated? Oh,  surely  not. 

F.  Aye,  he  did.  Ask  thy  conscience,  and  it  will 
speak  with  a  voice  of  thunder  to  thy  soul. 

A.  He  will  not  say  so,  he  dare  not,  he  cannot. 

F.  No,  he  will  not  say  so  now,  because  his  mouth, 
I  trust,  is  hushed  in  death,  and  his  body  stretched  to 
the  four  winds  of  heaven,  to  be  torn  to  pieces  by 
carnivorous  birds. 

A.  What,  is  he  dead,  and  gone  to  the  world  of 
spirits  with  that  declaration  in  his  mouth?  Oh, 
unhappy  man!  Oh,  insupportable  hour! 


MARK    TWAIN 

F.  Yes,  and  had  all  his  sighs  and  looks  and  tears 
been  lives,  my  great  revenge  could  have  slain  them 
all,  without  the  least  condemnation. 

A.  Alas !  he  is  ushered  into  eternity  without  testing 
the  matter  for  which  I  am  abused  and  sentenced  and 
condemned  to  die. 

F.  Cursed,  infernal  woman!  Weepest  thou  for 
him  to  my  face?  He  that  hath  robbed  me  of  my 
peace,  my  energy,  the  whole  love  of  my  life?  Could 
I  call  the  fabled  Hydra,  I  would  have  him  live  and 
perish,  survive  and  die,  until  the  sun  itself  would 
grow  dim  with  age.  I  would  make  him  have  the 
thirst  of  a  Tantalus,  and  roll  the  wheel  of  an  Ixion, 
until  the  stars  of  heaven  should  quit  their  brilliant 
stations. 

A.  Oh,  invincible  God,  save  me!  Oh,  unsupport- 
able  moment!  Oh,  heavy  hour!  Banish  me,  Farcillo 
— send  me  where  no  eye  can  ever  see  me,  where  no 
sound  shall  ever  greet  my  ear;  but,  oh,  slay  me  not, 
Farcillo;  vent  thy  rage  and  thy  spite  upon  this 
emaciated  frame  of  mine,  only  spare  my  life. 

F.  Your  petitions  avail  nothing,  cruel  Amelia. 

A.  Oh,  Farcillo,  perpetrate  the  dark  deed  to- 
morrow; let  me  live  till  then,  for  my  past  kindness 
to  you,  and  it  may  be  some  kind  angel  will  show  to 
you  that  I  am  not  only  the  object  of  innocence,  but 
one  who  never  loved  another  but  your  noble  self. 

F.  Amelia,  the  decree  has  gone  forth,  it  is  to  be 
done,  and  that  quickly;  thou  art  to  die,  madam. 

A.  But  half  an  hour  allow  me,  to  see  my  father 
and  my  only  child,  to  tell  her  the  treachery  and 
vanity  of  this  world. 

158 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

F.  There  is  no  alternative,  there  is  no  pause:  my 
daughter  shall  not  see  its  deceptive  mother  die;  your 
father  shall  not  know  that  his  daughter  fell  dis- 
graced, despised  by  all  but  her  enchanting  Malos. 

A.  Oh,  Farcillo,  put  up  thy  threatening  dagger 
into  its  scabbard;  let  it  rest  and  be  still,  just  while 
I  say  one  prayer  for  thee  and  for  my  child. 

F.  It  is  too  late,  thy  doom  is  fixed,  thou  hast  not 
confessed  to  Heaven  or  to  me,  my  child's  protector 
— thou  art  to  die.  Ye  powers  of  earth  and  heaven, 
protect  and  defend  me  in  this  alone.  (Stabs  her  while 
imploring  for  mercy.) 

A.  Oh,  Farcillo,  Farcillo,  a  guiltless  death  I  die. 

F.  Die!  die!  die! 

(Gracia  enters  running,  falls  on  her  knees  weeping,  and 
kisses  Amelia.) 

G.  Oh,  Farcillo,  Farcillo!  oh,  Farcillo! 

F.  I  am  here,   the  genius  of  the  age,  and  the 
avenger  of  my  wrongs. 

G.  Oh,  lady,  speak  once  more;  sweet  Amelia,  oh, 
speak  again.    Gone,  gone — yes,  forever  gone!    Far- 
cillo, oh,  cold-hearted  Farcillo,  some  evil  fiend  hath 
urged  you  to  do  this,  Farcillo. 

F.  Say  not  so  again,  or  you  shall  receive  the  same 
fate.     I  did  the  glorious  deed,  madam — beware,  then, 
how  you  talk. 

G.  I  fear  not  your  implements  of  war;  I  will  let 
you  know  you  have  not  the  power  to  do  me  harm. 
If  you  have  a  heart  of  triple  brass,  it  shall  be  reached 
and  melted,  and  thy  blood  shall  chill  thy  veins  and 
grow  stiff  in  thy  arteries.     Here  is  the  ring  of  the 


MARK    TWAIN 

virtuous  and  innocent  murdered  Amelia;  I  obtained 
it  from  Malos,  who  yet  lives,  in  hopes  that  he  will 
survive  the  wound  given  him,  and  says  he  got  it 
clandestinely — declares  Amelia  to  be  the  princess  of 
truth  and  virtue,  invulnerable  to  anything  like  for- 
getting her  first  devotion  to  thee.  The  world  has 
heard  of  your  conduct  and  your  jealousy,  and  with 
one  universal  voice  declares  her  to  be  the  best  of  all 
in  piety;  that  she  is  the  star  of  this  great  universe,  and 
a  more  virtuous  woman  never  lived  since  the  wheels 
of  time  began.  Oh,  had  you  waited  till  to-morrow, 
or  until  I  had  returned,  some  kind  window  would 
have  been  opened  to  her  relief.  But,  alas!  she  is 
gone— yes,  forever  gone,  to  try  the  realities  of  an 
unknown  world ! 

(Farcillo  leaning  over  the  body  of  Amelia.) 

F.  Malos  not  dead,  and  here  is  my  ring!  Oh, 
Amelia!  falsely,  falsely  murdered!  Oh,  bloody  deed! 
Oh,  wretch  that  I  am!  Oh,  angels  forgive  me!  Oh, 
God,  withhold  thy  vengeance!  Oh,  Amelia!  if 
Heaven  would  make  a  thousand  worlds  like  this,  set 
with  diamonds,  and  all  of  one  perfect  chrysolite,  I 
would  not  have  done  this  for  them  all,  I  would  not 
have  frowned  and  cursed  as  I  did.  Oh,  she  was 
heavenly  true,  nursed  in  the  very  lap  of  bright 
angels!  Cursed  slave  that  I  am!  Jealousy,  oh! 
thou  infernal  demon!  Lost,  lost  to  every  sense  of 
honor!  Oh!  Amelia  —  heaven-born  Amelia  —  dead, 
dead!  Oh!  oh!  oh! — then  let  me  die  with  thee. 
Farewell!  farewell!  ye  world  that  deceived  me! 
(Stabs  himself.") 

160 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

Soon  after  the  excitement  of  this  tragical  scene  was 
over,  and  the  enlisted  feeling  for  Amelia  had  grown 
more  buoyant  with  Elfonzo  and  Ambulinia,  he  deter- 
mined to  visit  his  retired  home,  and  make  the  neces- 
sary improvements  to  enjoy  a  better  day;  conse- 
quently he  conveyed  the  following  lines  to  Ambulinia: 

Go  tell  the  world  that  hope  is  glowing, 
Go  bid  the  rocks  their  silence  break, 

Go  tell  the  stars  that  love  is  glowing, 
Then  bid  the  hero  his  lover  take. 

In  the  region  where  scarcely  the  foot  of  man  hath 
ever  trod,  where  the  woodman  hath  not  found  his 
way,  lies  a  blooming  grove,  seen  only  by  the  sun  when 
he  mounts  his  lofty  throne,  visited  only  by  the  light 
of  the  stars,  to  whom  are  intrusted  the  guardianship 
of  earth,  before  the  sun  sinks  to  rest  in  his  rosy  bed. 
High  cliffs  of  rocks  surround  the  romantic  place,  and 
in  the  small  cavity  of  the  rocky  wall  grows  the 
daffodil  clear  and  pure;  and  as  the  wind  blows  along 
the  enchanting  little  mountain  which  surrounds  the 
lonely  spot,  it  nourishes  the  flowers  with  the  dew- 
drops  of  heaven.  Here  is  the  seat  of  Elfonzo ;  dark- 
ness claims  but  little  victory  over  this  dominion,  and 
in  vain  does  she  spread  out  her  gloomy  wings.  Here 
the  waters  flow  perpetually,  and  the  trees  lash  their 
tops  together  to  bid  the  welcome  visitor  a  happy 
muse.  Elfonzo,  during  his  short  stay  in  the  country, 
had  fully  persuaded  himself  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
bring  this  solemn  matter  to  an  issue.  A  duty  that 
he  individually  owed,  as  a  gentleman,  to  the  parents 
of  Ambulinia,  a  duty  in  itself  involving  not  only  his 
own  happiness  and  his  own  standing  in  society,  but 
161 


MARK    TWAIN 

one  that  called  aloud  the  act  of  the  parties  to  make 
it  perfect  and  complete.  How  he  should  com- 
municate his  intentions  to  get  a  favorable  reply,  he 
was  at  a  loss  to  know;  he  knew  not  whether  to 
address  Esq.  Valeer  in  prose  or  in  poetry,  in  a  jocular 
or  an  argumentative  manner,  or  whether  he  should 
use  moral  suasion,  legal  injunction,  or  seize  and  take 
by  reprisal ;  if  it  was  to  do  the  latter,  he  would  have 
no  difficulty  in  deciding  in  his  own  mind,  but  his 
gentlemanly  honor  was  at  stake;  so  he  concluded  to 
address  the  following  letter  to  the  father  and  mother 
of  Ambulinia,  as  his  address  in  person  he  knew 
would  only  aggravate  the  old  gentleman,  and  perhaps 
his  lady. 

GUMMING,  GA.,  January  22,  1844. 
MR.  AND  MRS.  VALEER— 

Again  I  resume  the  pleasing  task  of  addressing  you,  and  once 
more  beg  an  immediate  answer  to  my  many  salutations.  From 
every  circumstance  that  has  taken  place,  I  feel  in  duty  bound  to 
comply  with  my  obligations;  to  forfeit  my  word  would  be  more 
than  I  dare  do;  to  break  my  pledge,  and  my  vows  that  have  been 
witnessed,  sealed,  and  delivered  in  the  presence  of  an  unseen 
Deity,  would  be  disgraceful  on  my  part,  as  well  as  ruinous  to 
Ambulinia.  I  wish  no  longer  to  be  kept  in  suspense  about  this 
matter.  I  wish  to  act  gentlemanly  in  every  particular.  It  is 
true,  the  promises  I  have  made  are  unknown  to  any  but  Ambu- 
linia, and  I  think  it  unnecessary  to  here  enumerate  them,  as 
they  who  promise  the  most  generally  perform  the  least.  Can 
you  for  a  moment  doubt  my  sincerity  or  my  character?  My 
only  wish  is,  sir,  that  you  may  cahnly  and  dispassionately  look 
at  the  situation  of  the  case,  and  if  your  better  judgment  should 
dictate  otherwise,  my  obligations  may  induce  me  to  pluck  the 
flower  that  you  so  diametrically  opposed.  We  have  sworn  by 
the  saints — by  the  gods  of  battle,  and  by  that  faith  whereby 
just  men  are  made  perfect — to  be  united.  I  hope,  my  dear  sir, 
162 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

you  will  find  it  convenient  as  well  as  agreeable  to  give  me  a 
favorable  answer,  with  the  signature  of  Mrs.  Valeer,  as  well  as 
yourself. 

With  very  great  esteem, 

your  humble  servant, 

J.  I.  ELPONZO. 

The  moon  and  stars  had  grown  pale  when  Ambu- 
linia  had  retired  to  rest.  A  crowd  of  unpleasant 
thoughts  passed  through  her  bosom.  Solitude  dwelt 
in  her  chamber — no  sound  from  the  neighboring 
world  penetrated  its  stillness;  it  appeared  a  temple  of 
silence,  of  repose,  and  of  mystery.  At  that  moment 
she  heard  a  still  voice  calling  her  father.  In  an 
instant,  like  the  flash  of  lightning,  a  thought  ran 
through  her  mind  that  it  must  be  the  bearer  of 
Elfonzo's  communication.  "It  is  not  a  dream!"  she 
said,  "no,  I  cannot  read  dreams.  Oh!  I  would  to 
Heaven  I  was  near  that  glowing  eloquence — that 
poetical  language — it  charms  the  mind  in  an  in- 
expressible manner,  and  warms  the  coldest  heart." 
While  consoling  herself  with  this  strain,  her  father 
rushed  into  her  room  almost  frantic  with  rage,  ex- 
claiming: "Oh,  Ambulinia!  Ambulinia!!  undutiful, 
ungrateful  daughter!  What  does  this  mean?  Why 
does  this  letter  bear  such  heart-rending  intelligence? 
Will  you  quit  a  father's  house  with  this  debased 
wretch,  without  a  place  to  lay  his  distracted  head; 
going  up  and  down  the  country,  with  every  novel 
object  that  may  chance  to  wander  through  this 
region.  He  is  a  pretty  man  to  make  love  known  to 
his  superiors,  and  you,  Ambulinia,  have  done  but 
little  credit  to  yourself  by  honoring  his  visits.  Oh, 
wretchedness!  can  it  be  that  my  hopes  of  happiness 
163 


MARK    TWAIN 

are  forever  blasted !  Will  you  not  listen  to  a  father's 
entreaties,  and  pay  some  regard  to  a  mother's  tears. 
I  know,  and  I  do  pray  that  God  will  give  me  fortitude 
to  bear  with  this  sea  of  troubles,  and  rescue  my 
daughter,  my  Ambulinia,  as  a  brand  from  the  eternal 
burning."  "Forgive  me,  father,  oh!  forgive  thy 
child,"  replied  Ambulinia.  "My  heart  is  ready  to 
break,  when  I  see  you  in  this  grieved  state  of  agita- 
tion. Oh!  think  not  so  meanly  of  me,  as  that  I 
mourn  for  my  own  danger.  Father,  I  am  only 
woman.  Mother,  I  am  only  the  templement  of  thy 
youthful  years,  but  will  suffer  courageously  whatever 
punishment  you  think  proper  to  inflict  upon  me,  if 
you  will  but  allow  me  to  comply  with  my  most 
sacred  promises — if  you  will  but  give  me  my  personal 
right  and  my  personal  liberty.  Oh,  father!  if  your 
generosity  will  but  give  me  these,  I  ask  nothing 
more.  When  Elfonzo  offered  me  his  heart,  I  gave 
him  my  hand,  never  to  forsake  him,  and  now  may 
the  mighty  God  banish  me  before  I  leave  him  in 
adversity.  What  a  heart  must  I  have  to  rejoice  in 
prosperity  with  him  whose  offers  I  have  accepted, 
and  then,  when  poverty  comes,  haggard  as  it  may 
be,  for  me  to  trifle  with  the  oracles  of  Heaven,  and 
change  with  every  fluctuation  that  may  interrupt 
our  happiness — like  the  politician  who  runs  the 
political  gantlet  for  office  one  day,  and  the  next  day, 
because  the  horizon  is  darkened  a  little,  he  is  seen 
running  for  his  life,  for  fear  he  might  perish  in  its 
ruins.  Where  is  the  philosophy,  where  is  the  con- 
sistency, where  is  the  charity,  in  conduct  like  this? 
Be  happy  then,  my  beloved  father,  and  forget  me; 
164 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

let  the  sorrow  of  parting  break  down  the  wall  of 
separation  and  make  us  equal  in  our  feeling;  let  me 
now  say  how  ardently  I  love  you;  let  me  kiss  that 
age-worn  cheek,  and  should  my  tears  bedew  thy  face, 
I  will  wipe  them  away.  Oh,  I  never  can  forget  you; 
no,  never,  never!" 

"Weep  not,"  said  the  father,  "Ambulinia.  I 
will  forbid  Elfonzo  my  house,  and  desire  that  you 
may  keep  retired  a  few  days.  I  will  let  him  know 
that  my  friendship  for  my  family  is  not  linked 
together  by  cankered  chains;  and  if  he  ever  enters 
upon  my  premises  again,  I  will  send  him  to  his  long 
home."  "Oh,  father!  let  me  entreat  you  to  be  calm 
upon  this  occasion,  and  though  Elfonzo  may  be  the 
sport  of  the  clouds  and  winds,  yet  I  feel  assured  that 
no  fate  will  send  him  to  the  silent  tomb  until  the 
God  of  the  Universe  calls  him  hence  with  a  trium- 
phant voice." 

Here  the  father  turned  away,  exclaiming:  "I  will 
answer  his  letter  in  a  very  few  words,  and  you, 
madam,  will  have  the  goodness  to  stay  at  home  with 
your  mother;  and  remember,  I  am  determined  to 
protect  you  from  the  consuming  fire  that  looks  so  fair 
to  your  view." 

GUMMING,  January  22,  1844. 

SIR— In  regard  to  your  request,  I  am  as  I  ever  have  been, 
utterly  opposed  to  your  marrying  into  my  family ;  and  if  you  have 
any  regard  for  yourself,  or  any  gentlemanly  feeling,  I  hope  you 
will  mention  it  to  me  no  more;  but  seek  some  other  one  who 
is  not  so  far  superior  to  you  in  standing. 

W.  W.  VALEER. 

When  Elfonzo  read  the  above  letter,  he  became  so 
much  depressed  in  spirits  that  many  of  his  friends 


MARK    TWAIN 

thought  it  advisable  to  use  other  means  to  bring 
about  the  happy  union.  "Strange,"  said  he,  "that 
the  contents  of  this  diminutive  letter  should  cause 
me  to  have  such  depressed  feelings;  but  there  is  a 
nobler  theme  than  this.  I  know  not  why  my 
military  title  is  not  as  great  as  that  of  Squire  Valeer. 
For  my  life  I  cannot  see  that  my  ancestors  are  in- 
ferior to  those  who  are  so  bitterly  opposed  to  my 
marriage  with  Ambulinia.  I  know  I  have  seen  huge 
mountains  before  me,  yet,  when  I  think  that  I  know 
gentlemen  will  insult  me  upon  this  delicate  matter, 
should  I  become  angry  at  fools  and  babblers,  who 
pride  themselves  in  their  impudence  and  ignorance  ? 
No.  My  equals!  I  know  not  where  to  find  them. 
My  inferiors!  I  think  it  beneath  me;  and  my  su- 
periors! I  think  it  presumption;  therefore,  if  this 
youthful  heart  is  protected  by  any  of  the  divine 
rights,  I  never  will  betray  my  trust." 

He  was  aware  that  Ambulinia  had  a  confidence 
that  was,  indeed,  as  firm  and  as  resolute  as  she  was 
beautiful  and  interesting.  He  hastened  to  the  cot- 
tage of  Louisa,  who  received  him  in  her  usual  mode 
of  pleasantness,  and  informed  him  that  Ambulinia 
had  just  that  moment  left.  "Is  it  possible?"  said 
Elfonzo.  "Oh,  murdered  hours!  Why  did  she  not 
remain  and  be  the  guardian  of  my  secrets?  But 
hasten  and  tell  me  how  she  has  stood  this  trying 
scene,  and  what  are  her  future  determinations." 
"You  know,"  said  Louisa,  "Major  Elfonzo,  that  you 
have  Ambulinia's  first  love,  which  is  of  no  small 
consequence.  She  came  here  about  twilight,  and 
shed  many  precious  tears  in  consequence  of  her  own 
166 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

fate  with  yours.  We  walked  silently  in  yon  little 
valley  you  see,  where  we  spent  a  momentary  repose. 
She  seemed  to  be  quite  as  determined  as  ever,  and 
before  we  left  that  beautiful  spot  she  offered  up  a 
prayer  to  Heaven  for  thee."  "I  will  see  her  then," 
replied  Elfonzo,  "though  legions  of  enemies  may 
oppose.  She  is  mine  by  foreordination — she  is 
mine  by  prophecy — she  is  mine  by  her  own  free  will, 
and  I  will  rescue  her  from  the  hands  of  her  op- 
pressors. Will  you  not,  Miss  Louisa,  assist  me  in  my 
capture?" 

"I  will  certainly,  by  the  aid  of  Divine  Providence," 
answered  Louisa,  "endeavor  to  break  those  slavish 
chains  that  bind  the  richest  of  prizes ;  though  allow 
me,  Major,  to  entreat  you  to  use  no  harsh  means  on 
this  important  occasion;  take  a  decided  stand,  and 
write  freely  to  Ambulinia  upon  this  subject,  and  I  will 
see  that  no  intervening  cause  hinders  its  passage  to 
her.  God  alone  will  save  a  mourning  people.  Now 
is  the  day  and  now  is  the  hour  to  obey  a  command 
of  such  valuable  worth."  The  Major  felt  himself 
grow  stronger  after  this  short  interview  with  Louisa. 
He  felt  as  if  he  could  whip  his  weight  in  wildcats — 
he  knew  he  was  master  of  his  own  feelings,  and  could 
now  write  a  letter  that  would  bring  this  litigation 
to  an  issue. 

GUMMING,  January  24,  1844. 
DEAR  AMBULINIA— 

'  We  have  now  reached  the  most  trying  moment  of  our  lives; 
we  are  pledged  not  to  forsake  our  trust;  we  have  waited  for  a 
favorable  hour  to  come,  thinking  your  friends  would  settle  the 
matter  agreeably  among  themselves,  and  finally  be  reconciled 
to  our  marriage;  but  as  I  have  waited  in  vain,  and  looked  in 
167 


MARK    TWAIN 

vain,  I  have  determined  in  my  own  mind  to  make  a  proposition 
to  you,  though  you  may  think  it  not  in  accord  with  your  station, 
or  compatible  with  your  rank;  yet,  "sub  hoc  signo  vinces." 
You  know  I  cannot  resume  my  visits,  in  consequence  of  the 
utter  hostility  that  your  father  has  to  me;  therefore  the  con- 
summation of  our  union  will  have  to  be  sought  for  in  a  more 
sublime  sphere,  at  the  residence  of  a  respectable  friend  of  this 
village.  You  cannot  have  any  scruples  upon  this  mode  of 
proceeding,  if  you  will  but  remember  it  emanates  from  one  who 
loves  you  better  than  his  own  life — who  is  more  than  anxious 
to  bid  you  welcome  to  a  new  and  happy  home.  Your  warmest 
associates  say  come;  the  talented,  the  learned,  the  wise,  and  the 
experienced  say  come; — all  these  with  their  friends  say,  come. 
Viewing  these,  with  many  other  inducements,  I  flatter  myself 
that  you  will  come  to  the  embraces  of  your  Elfonzo;  for  now  is 
the  time  of  your  acceptance  and  the  day  of  your  liberation.  You 
cannot  be  ignorant,  Ambulinia,  that  thou  art  the  desire  of  my 
heart;  its  thoughts  are  too  noble,  and  too  pure,  to  conceal  them- 
selves from  you.  I  shall  wait  for  your  answer  to  this  impatiently, 
expecting  that  you  will  set  the  time  to  make  your  departure,  and 
to  be  in  readiness  at  a  moment's  warning  to  share  the  joys  of  a 
more  preferable  life.  This  will  be  handed  to  you  by  Louisa,  who 
will  take  a  pleasure  in  communicating  anything  to  you  that  may 
relieve  your  dejected  spirits,  and  will  assure  you  that  I  now 
stand  ready,  willing,  and  waiting  to  make  good  my  vows. 
I  am,  dear  Ambulinia,  yours 
truly,  and  forever, 
J.  I.  ELFONZO. 

Louisa  made  it  convenient  to  visit  Mr.  Valeer's, 
though  they  did  not  suspect  her  in  the  least  the 
bearer  of  love  epistles ;  consequently,  she  was  invited 
in  the  room  to  console  Ambulinia,  where  they  were 
left  alone.  Ambulinia  was  seated  by  a  small  table 
—her  head  resting  on  her  hand — her  brilliant  eyes 
were  bathed  in  tears.  Louisa  handed  her  the  letter 
of  Elfonzo,  when  another  spirit  animated  her  features 
—the  spirit  of  renewed  confidence  that  never  fails 
1 68 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

to  strengthen  the  female  character  in  an  hour  of 
grief  and  sorrow  like  this,  and  as  she  pronounced  the 
last  accent  of  his  name,  she  exclaimed,  "And  does 
he  love  me  yet !  I  never  will  forget  your  generosity, 
Louisa.  Oh,  unhappy  and  yet  blessed  Louisa!  may 
you  never  feel  what  I  have  felt — may  you  never  know 
the  pangs  of  love.  Had  I  never  loved,  I  never  would 
have  been  unhappy;  but  I  turn  to  Him  who  can 
save,  and  if  His  wisdom  does  not  will  my  expected 
union,  I  know  He  will  give  me  strength  to  bear  my 
lot.  Amuse  yourself  with  this  little  book,  and  take 
it  as  an  apology  for  my  silence,"  said  Ambulinia, 
"while  I  attempt  to  answer  this  volume  of  consola- 
tion." "Thank  you,"  said  Louisa,  "you  are  ex- 
cusable upon  this  occasion;  but  I  pray  you,  Ambu- 
linia, to  be  expert  upon  this  momentous  subject,  that 
there  may  be  nothing  mistrustful  upon  my  part." 
"I  will,"  said  Ambulinia,  and  immediately  resumed 
her  seat  and  addressed  the  following  to  Elfonzo: 

GUMMING,  GA.,  January  28,  1844. 
DEVOTED  ELFONZO — 

I  hail  your  letter  as  a  welcome  messenger  of  faith,  and  can 
now  say  truly  and  firmly  that  my  feelings  correspond  with 
yours.  Nothing  shall  be  wanting  on  my  part  to  make  my 
obedience  your  fidelity.  Courage  and  perseverance  will  accom- 
plish success.  Receive  this  as  my  oath,  that  while  I  grasp  your 
hand  in  my  own  imagination,  we  stand  united  before  a  higher 
tribunal  than  any  on  earth.  All  the  powers  of  my  life,  soul, 
and  body,  I  devote  to  thee.  Whatever  dangers  may  threaten 
me,  I  fear  not  to  encounter  them.  Perhaps  I  have  determined 
upon  my  own  destruction,  by  leaving  the  house  of  the  best  of 
parents;  be  it  so;  I  flee  to  you;  I  share  your  destiny,  faithful  to 
the  end.  The  day  that  I  have  concluded  upon  for  this  task  is 
Sabbath  next,  when  the  family  with  the  citizens  are  generally  at 
169 


MARK    TWAIN 

church.  For  Heaven's  sake  let  not  that  day  pass  unimproved: 
trust  not  till  to-morrow,  it  is  the  cheat  of  life — the  future  that 
never  comes — the  grave  of  many  noble  births — the  cavern  of 
ruined  enterprise:  which  like  the  lightning's  flash  is  born,  and 
dies,  and  perishes,  ere  the  voice  of  him  who  sees  can  cry,  behold  I 
behold!!  You  may  trust  to  what  I  say,  no  power  shall  tempt  me 
to  betray  confidence.  Suffer  me  to  add  one  word  more. 

I  will  soothe  thee,  in  all  thy  grief, 

Beside  the  gloomy  river; 
And  though  thy  love  may  yet  be  brief; 

Mine  is  fixed  forever. 

Receive  the  deepest  emotions  of  my  heart  for  thy  constant 
love,  and  may  the  power  of  inspiration  be  thy  guide,  thy  portion, 
and  thy  all.  In  great  haste, 

Yours  faithfully, 

AMBULINIA. 

"I  now  take  my  leave  of  you,  sweet  girl,"  said 
Louisa,  "sincerely  wishing  you  success  on  Sabbath 
next."  When  Ambulinia's  letter  was  handed  to 
Elfonzo,  he  perused  it  without  doubting  its  contents. 
Louisa  charged  him  to  make  but  few  confidants ;  but 
like  most  young  men  who  happened  to  win  the  heart 
of  a  beautiful  girl,  he  was  so  elated  with  the  idea  that 
he  felt  as  a  commanding  general  on  parade,  who  had 
confidence  in  all,  consequently  gave  orders  to  all. 
The  appointed  Sabbath,  with  a  delicious  breeze  and 
cloudless  sky,  made  its  appearance.  The  people 
gathered  in  crowds  to  the  church — the  streets  were 
filled  with  the  neighboring  citizens,  all  marching  to 
the  house  of  worship.  It  is  entirely  useless  for  me 
to  attempt  to  describe  the  feelings  of  Elfonzo  and 
Ambulinia,  who  were  silently  watching  the  move- 
ments of  the  multitude,  apparently  counting  them 
170 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

as  they  entered  the  house  of  God,  looking  for  the  last 
one  to  darken  the  door.  The  impatience  and  anxiety 
with  which  they  waited,  and  the  bliss  they  antici- 
pated on  the  eventful  day,  is  altogether  indescribable. 
Those  that  have  been  so  fortunate  as  to  embark  in 
such  a  noble  enterprise  know  all  its  realities;  and 
those  who  have  not  had  this  inestimable  privilege 
will  have  to  taste  its  sweets  before  they  can  tell  to 
others  its  joys,  its  comforts,  and  its  Heaven-born 
worth.  Immediately  after  Ambulinia  had  assisted 
the  family  off  to  church,  she  took  the  advantage  of 
that  opportunity  to  make  good  her  promises.  She 
left  a  home  of  enjoyment  to  be  wedded  to  one  whose 
love  had  been  justifiable.  A  few  short  steps  brought 
her  to  the  presence  of  Louisa,  who  urged  her  to  make 
good  use  of  her  time,  and  not  to  delay  a  moment, 
but  to  go  with  her  to  her  brother's  house,  where 
Elf onzo  would  forever  make  her  happy.  With  lively 
speed,  and  yet  a  graceful  air,  she  entered  the  door 
and  found  herself  protected  by  the  champion  of  her 
confidence.  The  necessary  arrangements  were  fast 
making  to  have  the  two  lovers  united — everything 
was  in  readiness  except  the  parson;  and  as  they  are 
generally  very  sanctimonious  on  such  occasions,  the 
news  got  to  the  parents  of  Ambulinia  before  the 
everlasting  knot  was  tied,  and  they  both  came 
running,  with  uplifted  hands  and  injured  feelings,  to 
arrest  their  daughter  from  an  unguarded  and  hasty 
resolution.  Elfonzo  desired  to  maintain  his  ground, 
but  Ambulinia  thought  it  best  for  him  to  leave,  to 
prepare  for  a  greater  contest.  He  accordingly 
obeyed,  as  it  would  have  been  a  vain  endeavor  for 
171 


MARK    TWAIN 

him  to  have  battled  against  a  man  who  was  armed 
with  deadly  weapons;  and  besides,  he  could  not 
resist  the  request  of  such  a  pure  heart.  Ambulinia 
concealed  herself  in  the  upper  story  of  the  house, 
fearing  the  rebuke  of  her  father;  the  door  was  locked, 
and  no  chastisement  was  now  expected.  Esquire 
Valeer,  whose  pride  was  already  touched,  resolved 
to  preserve  the  dignity  of  his  family.  He  entered 
the  house  almost  exhausted,  looking  wildly  for  Am- 
bulinia. "Amazed  and  astonished  indeed  I  am," 
said  he,  "at  a  people  who  call  themselves  civilized, 
to  allow  such  behavior  as  this.  Ambulinia,  Ambu- 
linia!" he  cried,  "come  to  the  calls  of  your  first,  your 
best,  and  your  only  friend.  I  appeal  to  you,  sir," 
turning  to  the  gentleman  of  the  house,  "to  know 
where  Ambulinia  has  gone,  or  where  is  she?"  "Do 
you  mean  to  insult  me,  sir,  in  my  own  house?" 
inquired  the  confounded  gentleman.  "I  will  burst," 
said  Mr.  V.,  "asunder  every  door  in  your  dwelling, 
in  search  of  my  daughter,  if  you  do  not  speak 
quickly,  and  tell  me  where  she  is.  I  care  nothing 
about  that  outcast  rubbish  of  creation,  that  mean, 
low-lived  Elfonzo,  if  I  can  but  obtain  Ambulinia. 
Are  you  not  going  to  open  this  door?"  said  he.  "By 
the  Eternal  that  made  Heaven  and  earth!  I  will  go 
about  the  work  instantly,  if  it  is  not  done."  The 
confused  citizens  gathered  from  all  parts  of  the  vil- 
lage, to  know  the  cause  of  this  commotion.  Some 
rushed  into  the  house ;  the  door  that  was  locked  flew 
open,  and  there  stood  Ambulinia,  weeping.  ' '  Father, 
be  still,"  said  she,  "and  I  will  follow  thee  home." 
But  the  agitated  man  seized^her,  and  bore  her  off 
172 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

through  the  gazing  multitude.  "Father!"  she  ex- 
claimed, "I  humbly  beg  your  pardon — I  will  be 
dutiful — I  will  obey  thy  commands.  Let  the  sixteen 
years  I  have  lived  in  obedience  to  thee  be  my  fu- 
ture security."  "I  don't  like  to  be  always  giving 
credit,  when  the  old  score  is  not  paid  up,  madam," 
said  the  father.  The  mother  followed  almost  in  a 
state  of  derangement,  crying  and  imploring  her  to 
think  beforehand,  and  ask  advice  from  experienced 
persons,  and  they  would  tell  her  it  was  a  rash  under- 
taking. "Oh!"  said  she,  "Ambulinia,  my  daughter, 
did  you  know  what  I  have  suffered — did  you  know 
how  many  nights  I  have  whiled  away  in  agony,  in 
pain,  and  in  fear,  you  would  pity  the  sorrows  of  a 
heartbroken  mother." 

"Well,  mother,"  replied  Ambulinia,  "I  know  I 
have  been  disobedient ;  I  am  aware  that  what  I  have 
done  might  have  been  done  much  better;  but  oh! 
what  shall  I  do  with  my  honor?  it  is  so  dear  to  me;  I 
am  pledged  to  Elfonzo.  His  high  moral  worth  is 
certainly  worth  some  attention;  moreover,  my  vows, 
I  have  no  doubt,  are  recorded  in  the  book  of  life,  and 
must  I  give  these  all  up?  must  my  fair  hopes  be  for- 
ever blasted  ?  Forbid  it,  father ;  oh !  forbid  it,  mother ; 
forbid  it,  Heaven."  "I  have  seen  so  many  beautiful 
skies  overclouded,"  replied  the  mother,  "so  many 
blossoms  nipped  by  the  frost,  that  I  am  afraid  to 
trust  you  to  the  care  of  those  fair  days,  which  may  be 
interrupted  by  thundering  and  tempestuous  nights. 
You  no  doubt  think  as  I  did — life's  devious  ways 
were  strewed  with  sweet-scented  flowers,  but  ah !  how 
long  they  have  lingered  around  me  and  took  their 


MARK    TWAIN 

flight  in  the  vivid  hope  that  laughs  at  the  drooping 
victims  it  has  murdered."  Elfonzo  was  moved  at  this 
sight.  The  people  followed  on  to  see  what  was  going 
to  become  of  Ambulinia,  while  he,  with  downcast 
looks,  kept  at  a  distance,  until  he  saw  them  enter 
the  abode  of  the  father,  thrusting  her,  that  was  the 
sigh  of  his  soul,  out  of  kis  presence  into  a  solitary 
apartment,  when  she  exclaimed,  "Elfonzo!  Elfonzo! 
oh,  Elfonzo!  where  art  thou,  with  all  thy  heroes? 
haste,  oh!  haste,  come  thou  to  my  relief.  Ride  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind!  Turn  thy  force  loose  like  a 
tempest,  and  roll  on  thy  army  like  a  whirlwind,  over 
this  mountain  of  trouble  and  confusion.  Oh,  friends ! 
if  any  pity  me,  let  your  last  efforts  throng  upon  the 
green  hills,  and  come  to  the  relief  of  Ambulinia,  who 
is  guilty  of  nothing  but  innocent  love."  Elfonzo 
called  out  with  a  loud  voice,  "My  God,  can  I  stand 
this !  arouse  up,  I  beseech  you,  and  put  an  end  to  this 
tyranny.  Come,  my  brave  boys,"  said  he,  "are  you 
ready  to  go  forth  to  your  duty  ?"  They  stood  around 
him.  ' '  Who, ' '  said  he, ' '  will  call  us  to  arms  ?  Where 
are  my  thunderbolts  of  war?  Speak  ye,  the  first 
who  will  meet  the  foe!  Who  will  go  forward  with 
me  in  this  ocean  of  grievous  temptation?  If  there 
is  one  who  desires  to  go,  let  him  come  and  shake 
hands  upon  the  altar  of  devotion,  and  swear  that  he 
will  be  a  hero;  yes,  a  Hector  in  a  cause  like  this, 
which  calls  aloud  for  a  speedy  remedy."  "Mine  be 
the  deed,"  said  a  young  lawyer,  "and  mine  alone; 
Venus  alone  shall  quit  her  station  before  I  will  forsake 
one  jot  or  tittle  of  my  promise  to  you;  what  is  death 
to  me?  what  is  all  this  warlike  army,  if  it  is  not  to 
174 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

nrin  a  victory?  I  love  the  sleep  of  the  lover  and  the 
mighty;  nor  would  I  give  it  over  till  the  blood  of 
my  enemies  should  wreak  with  that  of  my  own. 
But  God  forbid  that  our  fame  should  soar  on  the 
blood  of  the  slumberer."  Mr.  Valeer  stands  at  his 
door  with  the  frown  of  a  demon  upon  his  brow,  with 
his  dangerous  weapon  ready  to  strike  the  first  man 
who  should  enter  his  door.  "Who  will  arise  and  go 
forward  through  blood  and  carnage  to  the  rescue  of 
my  Ambulinia?"  said  Elfonzo.  "All,"  exclaimed  the 
multitude;  and  onward  they  went,  with  their  imple- 
ments of  battle.  Others,  of  a  more  timid  nature, 
stood  among  the  distant  hills  to  see  the  result  of  the 
contest. 

Elfonzo  took  the  lead  of  his  band.  Night  arose 
in  clouds;  darkness  concealed  the  heavens;  but  the 
blazing  hopes  that  stimulated  them  gleamed  in  ev- 
ery bosom.  All  approached  the  anxious  spot;  they 
rushed  to  the  front  of  the  house  and,  with  one  excla- 
mation, demanded  Ambulinia.  "Away,  begone,  and 
disturb  my  peace  no  more,"  said  Mr.  Valeer.  "You 
are  a  set  of  base,  insolent,  and  infernal  rascals.  Go, 
the  northern  star  points  your  path  through  the  dim 
twilight  of  the  night;  go,  and  vent  your  spite  upon 
the  lonely  hills;  pour  forth  your  love,  you  poor, 
weak-minded  wretch,  upon  your  idleness  and  upon 
your  guitar,  and  your  fiddle;  they  are  fit  subjects  for 
your  admiration,  for  let  me  assure  you,  though  this 
sword  and  iron  lever  are  cankered,  yet  they  frown 
in  sleep,  and  let  one  of  you  dare  to  enter  my  house 
this  night  and  you  shall  have  the  contents  and  the 
weight  of  these  instruments."  "Never  yet  did  base 
175 


MARK    TWAIN 

dishonor  blur  my  name,"  said  Elfonzo;  "mine  is  a 
cause  of  renown;  here  are  my  warriors;  fear  and 
tremble,  for  this  night,  though  hell  itself  should  op- 
pose, I  will  endeavor  to  avenge  her  whom  thou  hast 
banished  in  solitude.  The  voice  of  Ambulinia  shall 
be  heard  from  that  dark  dungeon."  At  that  mo- 
ment Ambulinia  appeared  at  the  window  above,  and 
with  a  tremulous  voice  said,  "Live,  Elfonzo!  oh!  live 
to  raise  my  stone  of  moss !  why  should  such  language 
enter  your  heart  ?  why  should  thy  voice  rend  the  air 
with  such  agitation?  I  bid  thee  live,  once  more 
remembering  these  tears  of  mine  are  shed  alone  for 
thee,  in  this  dark  and  gloomy  vault,  and  should  I 
perish  under  this  load  of  trouble,  join  the  song  of 
thrilling  accents  with  the  raven  above  my  grave, 
and  lay  this  tattered  frame  beside  the  banks  of  the 
Chattahoochee  or  the  stream  of  Sawney's  brook; 
sweet  will  be  the  song  of  death  to  your  Ambulinia. 
My  ghost  shall  visit  you  in  the  smiles  of  Paradise, 
and  tell  your  high  fame  to  the  minds  of  that  region, 
which  is  far  more  preferable  than  this  lonely  cell. 
My  heart  shall  speak  for  thee  till  the  latest  hour; 
I  know  faint  and  broken  are  the  sounds  of  sorrow, 
yet  our  souls,  Elfonzo,  shall  hear  the  peaceful  songs 
together.  One  bright  name  shall  be  ours  on  high, 
if  we  are  not  permitted  to  be  united  here;  bear  in 
mind  that  I  still  cherish  my  old  sentiments,  and  the 
poet  will  mingle  the  names  of  Elfonzo  and  Ambulinia 
in  the  tide  of  other  days."  "Fly,  Elfonzo,"  said  the 
voices  of  his  united  band,  "to  the  wounded  heart  of 
your  beloved.  All  enemies  shall  fall  beneath  thy 
sword.  Fly  through  the  clefts,  and  the  dim  spark 
176 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

shall  sleep  in  death."  Elfonzo  rushes  forward  and 
strikes  his  shield  against  the  door,  which  was  barri- 
caded, to  prevent  any  intercourse.  His  brave  sons 
throng  around  him.  The  people  pour  along  the 
streets,  both  male  and  female,  to  prevent  or  witness 
the  melancholy  scene. 

"To  arms,  to  arms!"  cried  Elfonzo;  "here  is  a 
victory  to  be  won,  a  prize  to  be  gained  that  is  more 
to  me  than  the  whole  world  beside."  "It  cannot  be 
done  to-night,"  said  Mr.  Valeer.  "I  bear  the  clang 
of  death ;  my  strength  and  armor  shall  prevail.  My 
Ambulinia  shall  rest  in  this  hall  until  the  break  of 
another  day,  and  if  we  fall,  we  fall  together.  If  we 
die,  we  die  clinging  to  our  tattered  rights,  and  our 
blood  alone  shall  tell  the  mournful  tale  of  a  murdered 
daughter  and  a  ruined  father."  Sure  enough,  he 
kept  watch  all  night,  and  was  successful  in  defending 
his  house  and  family.  The  bright  morning  gleamed 
upon  the  hills,  night  vanished  away,  the  Major  and 
his  associates  felt  somewhat  ashamed  that  they  had 
not  been  as  fortunate  as  they  expected  to  have  been; 
however,  they  still  leaned  upon  their  arms  in  dis- 
persed groups;  some  were  walking  the  streets,  others 
were  talking  in  the  Major's  behalf.  Many  of  the 
citizens  suspended  business,  as  the  town  presented 
nothing  but  consternation.  A  novelty  that  might 
end  in  the  destruction  of  some  worthy  and  respect- 
able citizens.  Mr.  Valeer  ventured  in  the  streets, 
though  not  without  being  well  armed.  Some  of  his 
friends  congratulated  him  on  the  decided  stand  he 
had  taken,  and  hoped  he  would  settle  the  matter 
amicably  with  Elfonzo,  without  any  serious  injury. 
177 


MARK     TWAIN 

"Me,"  he  replied,  "what,  me,  condescend  to  fellow- 
ship with  a  coward,  and  a  low-lived,  lazy,  undermining 
villain?  no,  gentlemen,  this  cannot  be;  I  had  rather 
be  borne  off,  like  the  bubble  upon  the  dark  blue 
ocean,  with  Ambulinia  by  my  side,  than  to  have  him 
in  the  ascending  or  descending  line  of  relationship. 
Gentlemen,"  continued  he,  "  if  Elfonzo  is  so  much  of 
a  distinguished  character,  and  is  so  learned  in  the 
fine  arts,  why  do  you  not  patronize  such  men?  why 
not  introduce  him  into  your  families,  as  a  gentleman 
of  taste  and  of  unequaled  magnanimity?  why  are 
you  so  very  anxious  that  he  should  become  a  relative 
of  mine?  Oh,  gentlemen,  I  fear  you  yet  are  tainted 
with  the  curiosity  of  our  first  parents,  who  were 
beguiled  by  the  poisonous  kiss  of  an  old  ugly  serpent, 
and  who,  for  one  apple,  damned  all  mankind.  I  wish 
to  divest  myself,  as  far  as  possible,  of  that  untutored 
custom.  I  have  long  since  learned  that  the  per- 
fection of  wisdom,  and  the  end  of  true  philosophy,  is 
to  proportion  our  wants  to  our  possessions,  our 
ambition  to  our  capacities;  we  will  then  be  a  happy 
and  a  virtuous  people."  Ambulinia  was  sent  off  to 
prepare  for  a  long  and  tedious  journey.  Her  new 
acquaintances  had  been  instructed  by  her  father 
how  to  treat  her,  and  in  what  manner,  and  to  keep 
the  anticipated  visit  entirely  secret.  Elfonzo  was 
watching  the  movements  of  everybody ;  some  friends 
had  told  him  of  the  plot  that  was  laid  to  carry  off 
Ambulinia.  At  night,  he  rallied  some  two  or  three 
of  his  forces,  and  went  silently  along  to  the  state- 
ly mansion;  a  faint  and  glimmering  light  showed 
through  the  windows;  lightly  he  steps  to  the  door; 
178 


THE  E-NEMY  CONQUEREJD 

there  were  many  voices  rallying  fresh  in  fancy's  eye; 
he  tapped  the  shutter;  it  was  opened  instantly,  and 
he  beheld  once  more,  seated  beside  several  ladies,  the 
hope  of  all  his  toils;  he  rushed  toward  her,  she  rose 
from  her  seat,  rejoicing;  he  made  one  mighty  grasp, 
when  Ambulinia  exclaimed,  "Huzza  for  Major  El- 
fonzo!  I  will  defend  myself  and  you,  too,  with  this 
conquering  instrument  I  hold  in  my  hand;  huzza,  I 
say,  I  now  invoke  time's  broad  wing  to  shed  around 
us  some  dewdrops  of  verdant  spring." 

But  the  hour  had  not  come  for  this  joyous  reunion ; 
her  friends  struggled  with  Elfonzo  for  some  time, 
and  finally  succeeded  in  arresting  her  from  his  hands. 
He  dared  not  injure  them,  because  they  were  matrons 
whose  courage  needed  no  spur;  she  was  snatched 
from  the  arms  of  Elfonzo,  with  so  much  eagerness, 
and  yet  with  such  expressive  signification,  that  he 
calmly  withdrew  from  this  lovely  enterprise,  with  an 
ardent  hope  that  he  should  be  lulled  to  repose  by  the 
zephyrs  which  whispered  peace  to  his  soul.  Several 
long  days  and  nights  passed  unmolested,  all  seemed 
to  have  grounded  their  arms  of  rebellion,  and  no 
callidity  appeared  to  be  going  on  with  any  of  the 
parties.  Other  arrangements  were  made  by  Ambu- 
linia ;  she  feigned  herself  to  be  entirely  the  votary  of 
a  mother's  care,  and  said,  by  her  graceful  smiles, 
that  manhood  might  claim  his  stern  dominion  in 
some  other  region,  where  such  boisterous  love  was 
not  so  prevalent.  This  gave  the  parents  a  confidence 
that  yielded  some  hours  of  sober  joy;  they  believed 
that  Ambulinia  would  now  cease  to  love  Elfonzo,  and 
that  her  stolen  affections  would  now  expire  with  her 
179 


MARK    TWAIN 

misguided  opinions.  They  therefore  declined  the 
idea  of  sending  her  to  a  distant  land.  But  oh !  they 
dreamed  not  of  the  rapture  that  dazzled  the  fancy  of 
Ambulinia,  who  would  say,  when  alone,  youth  should 
not  fly  away  on  his  rosy  pinions,  and  leave  her  to 
grapple  in  the  conflict  with  unknown  admirers. 

No  frowning  age  shall  control 
The  constant  current  of  my  soul, 
Nor  a  tear  from  pity's  eye 
Shall  check  my  sympathetic  sigh. 

With  this  resolution  fixed  in  her  mind,  one  dark 
and  dreary  night,  when  the  winds  whistled  and  the 
tempest  roared,  she  received  intelligence  that  Elfonzo 
was  then  waiting,  and  every  preparation  was  then 
ready,  at  the  residence  of  Dr.  Tully,  and  for  her  to 
make  a  quick  escape  while  the  family  were  reposing. 
Accordingly  she  gathered  her  books,  went  to  the 
wardrobe  supplied  with  a  variety  of  ornamental 
dressing,  and  ventured  alone  in  the  streets  to  make 
her  way  to  Elfonzo,  who  was  near  at  hand,  impa- 
tiently looking  and  watching  her  arrival.  "What 
forms,"  said  she,  "are  those  rising  before  me?  What 
is  that  dark  spot  on  the  clouds?  I  do  wonder  what 
frightful  ghost  that  is,  gleaming  on  the  red  tempest? 
Oh,  be  merciful  and  tell  me  what  region  you  are  from. 
Oh,  tell  me,  ye  strong  spirits,  or  ye  dark  and  fleeting 
clouds,  that  I  yet  have  a  friend."  "A  friend,"  said 
a  low,  whispering  voice.  "I  am  thy  unchanging,  thy 
aged,  and  thy  disappointed  mother.  Oh,  Ambulinia, 
why  hast  thou  deceived  me?  Why  brandish  in  that 
hand  of  thine  a  javelin  of  pointed  steel  ?  Why  suffer 
that  lip  I  have  kissed  a  thousand  times  to  equivo- 
180 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

cate?  My  daughter,  let  these  tears  sink  deep  into 
thy  soul,  and  no  longer  peusist  in  that  which  may  be 
your  destruction  and  ruin.  Come,  my  dear  child, 
retract  your  steps,  and  bear  me  company  to  your 
welcome  home."  Without  one  retorting  word,  or 
frown  from  her  brow,  she  yielded  to  the  entreaties 
of  her  mother,  and  with  all  the  mildness  of  her  former 
character  she  went  along  with  the  silver  lamp  of  age, 
to  the  home  of  candor  and  benevolence.  Her  father 
received  her  cold  and  formal  politeness — "Where 
has  Ambulinia  been,  this  blustering  evening,  Mrs. 
Valeer?"  inquired  he.  "Oh,  she  and  I  have  been 
taking  a  solitary  walk,"  said  the  mother;  "all  things, 
I  presume,  are  now  working  for  the  best." 

Elfonzo  heard  this  news  shortly  after  it  happened. 
"What,"  said  he,  "has  heaven  and  earth  turned 
against  me  ?  I  have  been  disappointed  times  without 
number.  Shall  I  despair? — must  I  give  it  over? 
Heaven's  decrees  will  not  fade;  I  will  write  again — 
I  will  try  again ;  and  if  it  traverses  a  gory  field,  I  pray 
forgiveness  at  the  altar  of  justice." 

DESOLATE  HILL,  GUMMING,  GEO.,  1844. 

UNCONQUERED  AND  BELOVED  AMBULINIA— 

I  have  only  time  to  say  to  you,  not  to  despair;  thy  fame 
shall  not  perish;  my  visions  are  brightening  before  me.  The 
whirlwind's  rage  is  past,  and  we  now  shall  subdue  our  enemies 
without  doubt.  On  Monday  morning,  when  your  friends  are 
at  breakfast,  they  will  not  suspect  your  departure,  or  even 
mistrust  me  being  in  town,  as  it  has  been  reported  advantage- 
ously that  I  have  left  for  the  west.  You  walk  carelessly 
toward  the  academy  grove,  where  you  will  find  me  with  a 
lightning  steed,  elegantly  equipped  to  bear  you  off  where  we 
shall  be  joined  in  wedlock  with  the  first  connubial  rights.  Fail 
not  to  do  this — think  not  of  the  tedious  relations  of  our  wrongs 
181 


MARK    TWAIN 

— be  invincible.  You  alone  occupy  all  my  ambition,  and  I 
alone  will  make  you  my  happy  spouse,  with  the  same  unim- 
peached  veracity.  I  remain,  forever,  your  devoted  friend  and 
admirer,  J.  I.  ELFONZO. 

The  appointed  day  ushered  in  undisturbed  by  any 
clouds;  nothing  disturbed  Ambulinia's  soft  beauty. 
With  serenity  and  loveliness  she  obeys  the  request  of 
Elfonzo.  The  moment  the  family  seated  themselves 
at  the  table — "Excuse  my  absence  for  a  short  time," 
said  she,  "while  I  attend  to  the  placing  of  those 
flowers,  which  should  have  been  done  a  week  ago." 
And  away  she  ran  to  the  sacred  grove,  surrounded 
with  glittering  pearls,  that  indicated  her  coming. 
Elfonzo  hails  her  with  his  silver  bow  and  his  golden 
harp.  They  meet — Ambulinia's  countenance  bright- 
ens— Elfonzo  leads  up  his  winged  steed.  "Mount," 
said  he,  "ye  true-hearted,  ye  fearless  soul — the  day 
is  ours."  She  sprang  upon  the  back  of  the  young 
thunderbolt,  a  brilliant  star  sparkles  upon  her  head, 
with  one  hand  she  grasps  the  reins,  and  with  the 
other  she  holds  an  olive  branch.  "Lend  thy  aid,  ye 
strong  winds,"  they  exclaimed,  "ye  moon,  ye  sun, 
and  all  ye  fair  host  of  heaven,  witness  the  enemy 
conquered."  "Hold,"  said  Elfonzo,  "thy  dashing 
steed."  "Ride  on,"  said  Ambulinia,  "the  voice  of 
thunder  is  behind  us."  And  onward  they  went,  with 
such  rapidity  that  they  very  soon  arrived  at  Rural 
Retreat,  where  they  dismounted,  and  were  united 
with  all  the  solemnities  that  usually  attend  such 
divine  operations.  They  passed  the  day  in  thanks- 
giving and  great  rejoicing,  and  on  that  evening  they 
visited  their  uncle,  where  many  of  their  friends  and 
182 


THE    ENEMY    CONQUERED 

acquaintances  had  gathered  to  congratulate  them  in 
the  field  of  untainted  bliss.  The  kind  old  gentleman 
met  them  in  the  yard:  "Well,"  said  he,  "I  wish  I 
may  die,  Elfonzo,  if  you  and  Ambulinia  haven't  tied 
a  knot  with  your  tongue  that  you  can't  untie  with 
your  teeth.  But  come  in,  come  in,  never  mind,  all 
is  right — the  world  still  moves  on,  and  no  one  has 
fallen  in  this  great  battle." 

Happy  now  is  their  lot !  Unmoved  by  misfortune, 
they  live  among  the  fair  beauties  of  the  South. 
Heaven  spreads  their  peace  and  fame  upon  the  arch 
of  the  rainbow,  and  smiles  propitiously  at  their  tri- 
umph, through  the  tears  of  the  storm. 


THE   CALIFORNIAN'S  TALE 

THIRTY-FIVE  years  ago  I  was  out  prospecting 
on  the  Stanislaus,  tramping  all  day  long  with 
pick  and  pan  and  horn,  and  washing  a  hatful  of  dirt 
here  and  there,  always  expecting  to  make  a  rich 
strike,  and  never  doing  it.  It  was  a  lovely  region, 
woodsy,  balmy,  delicious,  and  had  once  been  popu- 
lous, long  years  before,  but  now  the  people  had  van- 
ished and  the  charming  paradise  was  a  solitude. 
They  went  away  when  the  surface  diggings  gave  out. 
In  one  place,  where  a  busy  little  city  with  banks  and 
newspapers  and  fire  companies  and  a  mayor  and 
aldermen  had  been,  was  nothing  but  a  wide  expanse 
of  emerald  turf,  with  not  even  the  faintest  sign  that 
human  life  had  ever  been  present  there.  This  was 
down  toward  Tuttletown.  In  the  country  neighbor- 
hood thereabouts,  along  the  dusty  roads,  one  found 
at  intervals  the  prettiest  little  cottage  homes,  snug 
and  cozy,  and  so  cobwebbed  with  vines  snowed  thick 
with  roses  that  the  doors  and  windows  were  wholly 
hidden  from  sight — sign  that  these  were  deserted 
homes,  forsaken  years  ago  by  defeated  and  disap- 
pointed families  who  could  neither  sell  them  nor  give 
them  away.  Now  and  then,  half  an  hour  apart,  one 
came  across  solitary  log  cabins  of  the  earliest  mining 
days,  built  by  the  first  gold-miners,  the  predecessors 
184 


THE    CALIFORNIAN'S    TALE 

of  the  cottage-builders.  In  some  few  cases  these 
cabins  were  still  occupied;  and  when  this  was  so,  you 
could  depend  upon  it  that  the  occupant  was  the  very 
pioneer  who  had  built  the  cabin;  and  you  could  de- 
pend on  another  thing,  too — that  he  was  there  be- 
cause he  had  once  had  his  opportunity  to  go  home  to 
the  States  rich,  and  had  not  done  it;  had  rather  lost 
his  wealth,  and  had  then  in  his  humiliation  resolved 
to  sever  all  communication  with  his  home  relatives 
and  friends,  and  be  to  them  thenceforth  as  one  dead. 
Round  about  California  in  that  day  were  scattered  a 
host  of  these  living  dead  men — pride-smitten  poor 
fellows,  grizzled  and  old  at  forty,  whose  secret 
thoughts  were  made  all  of  regrets  and  longings — re- 
grets for  their  wasted  lives,  and  longings  to  be  out  of 
the  struggle  and  done  with  it  all. 

It  was  a  lonesome  land!  Not  a  sound  in  all  those 
peaceful  expanses  of  grass  and  woods  but  the  drowsy 
hum  of  insects;  no  glimpse  of  man  or  beast ;  nothing 
to  keep  up  your  spirits  and  make  you  glad  to  be 
alive.  And  so,  at  last,  in  the  early  part  of  the  after- 
noon, when  I  caught  sight  of  a  human  creature,  I 
felt  a  most  grateful  uplift.  This  person  was  a  man 
about  forty-five  years  old,  and  he  was  standing  at 
the  gate  of  one  of  those  cozy  little  rose-clad  cottages 
of  the  sort  already  referred  to.  However,  this  one 
hadn't  a  deserted  look;  it  had  the  look  of  being  lived 
in  and  petted  and  cared  for  and  looked  after;  and  so 
had  its  front  yard,  which  was  a  garden  of  flowers, 
abundant,  gay,  and  flourishing.  I  was  invited  in,  of 
course,  and  required  to  make  myself  at  home — it  was 
the  custom  of  the  country. 
185 


MARK    TWAIN 

It  was  delightful  to  be  in  such  a  place,  after  long 
weeks  of  daily  and  nightly  familiarity  with  miners' 
cabins — with  all  which  this  implies  of  dirt  floor, 
never-made  beds,  tin  plates  and  cups,  bacon  and 
beans  and  black  coffee,  and  nothing  of  ornament  but 
war  pictures  from  the  Eastern  illustrated  papers 
tacked  to  the  log  walls.  That  was  all  hard,  cheer- 
less, materialistic  desolation,  but  here  was  a  nest 
which  had  aspects  to  rest  the  tired  eye  and  refresh 
that  something  in  one's  nature  which,  after  long 
fasting,  recognizes,  when  confronted  by  the  belong- 
ings of  art,  howsoever  cheap  and  modest  they  may 
be,  that  it  has  unconsciously  been  famishing  and 
now  has  found  nourishment.  I  could  not  have  be- 
lieved that  a  rag  carpet  could  feast  me  so,  and  so 
content  me ;  or  that  there  could  be  such  solace  to  the 
soul  in  wall-paper  and  framed  lithographs,  and 
bright-colored  tidies  and  lamp-mats,  and  Windsor 
chairs,  and  varnished  what-nots,  with  sea-shells  and 
books  and  china  vases  on  them,  and  the  score  of 
little  unclassifiable  tricks  and  touches  that  a  wom- 
an's hand  distributes  about  a  home,  which  one  sees 
without  knowing  he  sees  them,  yet  would  miss  in  a 
moment  if  they  were  taken  away.  The  delight  that 
was  in  my  heart  showed  in  my  face,  and  the  man 
saw  it  and  was  pleased;  saw  it  so  plainly  that  he  an- 
swered it  as  if  it  had  been  spoken. 

"All  her  work,"  he  said,  caressingly;  "she  did  it 
all  herself — every  bit,"  and  he  took  the  room  in  with 
a  glance  which  was  full  of  affectionate  worship.  One 
of  those  soft  Japanese  fabrics  with  which  women 
drape  with  careful  negligence  the  upper  part  of  a 
186 


THE    CALIFORNIAN'S    TALE 

picture-frame  was  out  of  adjustment.  He  noticed 
it,  and  rearranged  it  with  cautions  pains,  stepping 
back  several  times  to  gauge  the  effect  before  he  got 
it  to  suit  him.  Then  he  gave  it  a  light  finishing  pat 
or  two  with  his  hand,  and  said:  "She  always  does 
that.  You  can't  tell  just  what  it  lacks,  but  it  does 
lack  something  until  you've  done  that — you  can  see 
it  yourself  after  it's  done,  but  that  is  all  you  know; 
you  can't  find  out  the  law  of  it.  It's  like  the  finish- 
ing pats  a  mother  gives  the  child's  hair  after  she's 
got  it  combed  and  brushed,  I  reckon.  I've  seen  her 
fix  all  these  things  so  much  that  I  can  do  them  all 
just  her  way,  though  I  don't  know  the  law  of  any  of 
them.  But  she  knows  the  law.  She  knows  the 
why  and  the  how  both;  but  I  don't  know  the  why;  I 
only  know  the  how." 

He  took  me  into  a  bedroom  so  that  I  might  wash 
my  hands;  such  a  bedroom  as  I  had  not  seen  for 
years:  white  counterpane,  white  pillows,  carpeted 
floor,  papered  walls,  pictures,  dressing-table,  with 
mirror  and  pin-cushion  and  dainty  toilet  things ;  and 
in  the  corner  a  wash-stand,  with  real  china-ware 
bowl  and  pitcher,  and  with  soap  in  a  china  dish,  and 
on  a  rack  more  than  a  dozen  towels — towels  too 
clean  and  white  for  one  out  of  practice  to  use  without 
some  vague  sense  of  profanation.  So  my  face  spoke 
again,  and  he  answered  with  gratified  words: 

"All  her  work;  she  did  it  all  herself — every  bit. 
Nothing  here  that  hasn't  felt  the  touch  of  her  hand. 
Now  you  would  think —  But  I  mustn't  talk  so 
much." 

By  this  time  I  was  wiping  my  hands  and  glancing 
187 


MARK    TWAIN 

from  detail  to  detail  of  the  room's  belongings,  as  one 
is  apt  to  do  when  he  is  in  a  new  place,  where  every- 
thing he  sees  is  a  comfort  to  his  eye  and  his  spirit; 
and  I  became  conscious,  in  one  of  those  unaccount- 
able ways,  you  know,  that  there  was  something  there 
somewhere  that  the  man  wanted  me  to  discover  for 
myself.  I  knew  it  perfectly,  and  I  knew  he  was  try- 
ing to  help  me  by  furtive  indications  with  his  eye, 
so  I  tried  hard  to  get  on  the  right  track,  being  eager 
to  gratify  him.  I  failed  several  times,  as  I  could  see 
out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye  without  being  told;  but 
at  last  I  knew  I  must  be  looking  straight  at  the 
thing — knew  it  from  the  pleasure  issuing  in  invisible 
waves  from  him.  He  broke  into  a  happy  laugh,  and 
rubbed  his  hands  together,  and  cried  out : 

"That's  it!  You've  found  it.  I  knew  you  would. 
It's  her  picture." 

I  went  to  the  little  black-walnut  bracket  on  the 
farther  wall,  and  did  find  there  what  I  had  not  yet 
noticed — a  daguerreotype-case.  It  contained  the 
sweetest  girlish  face,  and  the  most  beautiful,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  that  I  had  ever  seen.  The  man  drank 
the  admiration  from  my  face,  and  was  fully  satisfied. 

"Nineteen  her  last  birthday,"  he  said,  as  he  put 
the  picture  back;  "and  that  was  the  day  we  were 
married.  When  you  see  her — ah,  just  wait  till  you 
see  her!" 

' '  Where  is  she  ?    When  will  she  be  in  ?" 

"Oh,  she's  away  now.  She's  gone  to  see  her 
people.  They  live  forty  or  fifty  miles  from  here. 
She's  been  gone  two  weeks  to-day." 

"When  do  you  expect  her  back?" 
188 


THE    CALIFORNIAN'S    TALE 

"This  is  Wednesday.  She'll  be  back  Saturday,  in 
the  evening — about  nine  o'clock,  likely." 

I  felt  a  sharp  sense  of  disappointment. 

"I'm  sony,  because  I'll  be  gone  then,"  I  said, 
regretfully. 

"Gone?  No — why  should  you  go?  Don't  go. 
She'll  be  so  disappointed." 

She  would  be  disappointed — that  beautiful  crea- 
ture !  If  she  had  said  the  words  herself  they  could 
hardly  have  blessed  me  more.  I  was  feeling  a  deep, 
strong  longing  to  see  her — a  longing  so  supplicating, 
so  insistent,  that  it  made  me  afraid.  I  said  to  my- 
self:  "I  will  go  straight  away  from  this  place,  for 
my  peace  of  mind's  sake." 

"You  see,  she  likes  to  have  people  come  and  stop 
with  us — people  who  know  things,  and  can  talk — 
people  like  you.  She  delights  in  it;  for  she  knows 
— oh,  she  knows  nearly  everything  herself,  and  can 
talk,  oh,  like  a  bird — and  the  books  she  reads,  why, 
you  would  be  astonished.  Don't  go;  it's  only  a  little 
while,  you  know,  and  she'll  be  so  disappointed." 

I  heard  the  words,  but  hardly  noticed  them,  I  was 
so  deep  in  my  thinkings  and  strugglings.  He  left 
me,  but  I  didn't  know.  Presently  he  was  back,  with 
the  picture-case  in  his  hand,  and  he  held  it  open 
before  me  and  said: 

"There,  now,  tell  her  to  her  face  you  could  have 
stayed  to  see  her,  and  you  wouldn't." 

That  second  glimpse  broke  down  my  good  resolu- 
tion. I  would  stay  and  take  the  risk.  That  night 
we  smoked  the  tranquil  pipe,  and  talked  till  late 
about  various  things,  but  mainly  about  her;  and  cer- 
189 


MARK    TWAIN 

tainly  I  had  had  no  such  phasant  and  restful  time 
for  many  a  day.  The  Thursday  followed  and  slipped 
comfortably  away.  Toward  twilight  a  big  miner 
from  three  miles  away  came — one  of  the  grizzled, 
stranded  pioneers — and  gave  us  warm  salutation, 
clothed  in  grave  and  sober  speech.  Then  he  said : 

"I  only  just  dropped  over  to  ask  about  the  little 
madam,  and  when  is  she  coming  home.  Any  news 
from  her?" 

"Oh  yes,  a  letter.  Would  you  like  to  hear  it, 
Tom?" 

"Well,  I  should  think  I  would,  if  you  don't  mind, 
Henry!" 

Henry  got  the  letter  out  of  his  wallet,  and  said 
he  would  skip  some  of  the  private  phrases,  if  we 
were  willing;  then  he  went  on  and  read  the  bulk  . 
of  it — a  loving,  sedate,  and  altogether  charming 
and  gracious  piece  of  handiwork,  with  a  postscript 
full  of  affectionate  regards  and  messages  to  Tom, 
and  Joe,  and  Charley,  and  other  close  friends  and 
neighbors. 

As  the  reader  finished,  he  glanced  at  Tom,  and 
cried  out: 

"Oho,  you're  at  it  again!  Take  your  hands 
away,  and  let  me  see  your  eyes.  You  always  do 
that  when  I  read  a  letter  from  her.  I  will  write  and 
tell  her." 

"Oh  no,  you  mustn't,  Henry.  I'm  getting  old, 
you  know,  and  any  little  disappointment  makes  me 
want  to  cry.  I  thought  she'd  be  here  herself,  and 
now  you've  got  only  a  letter." 

"Well,   now,   what  put   that  in  your  head?    I 
190 


THE    CALIFORNIAN'S    TALE 

thought  everybody  knew  she  wasn't  coming  till 
Saturday." 

"Saturday!  Why,  come  to  think,  I  did  know  it. 
I  wonder  what's  the  matter  with  me  lately?  Cer- 
tainly I  knew  it.  Ain't  we  all  getting  ready  for  her? 
Well,  I  must  be  going  now.  But  I'll  be  on  hand 
when  she  comes,  old  man!" 

Late  Friday  afternoon  another  gray  veteran 
tramped  over  from  his  cabin  a  mile  or  so  away,  and 
said  the  boys  wanted  to  have  a  little  gaiety  and 
a  good  time  Saturday  night,  if  Henry  thought  she 
wouldn't  be  too  tired  after  her  journey  to  be  kept  up. 

"Tired?  She  tired!  Oh,  hear  the  man!  Joe,  you 
know  she'd  sit  up  six  weeks  to  please  any  one  of 
you!" 

When  Joe  heard  that  there  was  a  letter,  he  asked 
to  have  it  read,  and  the  loving  messages  in  it  for  him 
broke  the  old  fellow  all  up;  but  he  said  he  was  such 
an  old  wreck  that  that  would  happen  to  him  if  she 
only  just  mentioned  his  name.  "Lord,  we  miss  her 
so!"  he  said. 

Saturday  afternoon  I  found  I  was  taking  out  my 
watch  pretty  often.  Henry  noticed  it,  and  said, 
with  a  startled  look: 

"You  don't  think  she  ought  to  be  here  so  soon,  do 
you?" 

I  felt  caught,  and  a  little  embarrassed;  but  I 
laughed,  and  said  it  was  a  habit  of  mine  when  I  was 
in  a  state  of  expectancy.  But  he  didn't  seem  quite 
satisfied;  and  from  that  time  on  he  began  to  show 
uneasiness.  Four  times  he  walked  me  up  the  road 
to  a  point  whence  we  could  see  a  long  distance;  and 
191 


MARK    TWAIN 

there  he  would  stand,   shading  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  and  looking.     Several  times  he  said: 

"I'm  getting  worried,  I'm  getting  right  down  wor- 
ried. I  know  she's  not  due  till  about  nine  o'clock, 
and  yet  something  seems  to  be  trying  to  warn  me 
that  something's  happened,  You  don't  think  any- 
thing has  happened,  do  you?" 

I  began  to  get  pretty  thoroughly  ashamed  of  him 
for  his  childishness;  and  at  last,  when  he  repeated 
that  imploring  question  still  another  time,  I  lost  my 
patience  for  the  moment,  and  spoke  pretty  brutally 
to  him.  It  seemed  to  shrivel  him  up  and  cow  him; 
and  he  looked  so  wounded  and  so  humble  after  that, 
that  I  detested  myself  for  having  done  the  cruel  and 
unnecessary  thing.  And  so  I  was  glad  when  Charley, 
another  veteran,  arrived  toward  the  edge  of  tile 
evening,  and  nestled  up  to  Henry  to  hear  the  letter 
read,  and  talked  over  the  preparations  for  the  wel 
come.  Charley  fetched  out  one  hearty  speech  aftei 
another,  and  did  his  best  to  drive  away  his  friend's 
bodings  and  apprehensions. 

"Anything  happened  to  her?  Henry,  that's  pure 
nonsense.  There  isn't  anything  going  to  happen  to 
her;  just  make  your  mind  easy  as  to  that.  What 
did  the  letter  say?  Said  she  was  well,  didn't  it? 
And  said  she'd  be  here  by  nine  o'clock,  didn't  it? 
Did  you  ever  know  her  to  fail  of  her  word?  Why, 
you  know  you  never  did.  Well,  then,  don't  you 
fret;  she'll  be  here,  and  that's  absolutely  certain,  and 
as  sure  as  you  are  born.  Come,  now,  let's  get  to 
decorating — not  much  time  left." 

Pretty  soon  Tom  and  Joe  arrived,  and  then  all 
192 


THE    CALIFORNIAN'S    TALE 

hands  set  about  adorning  the  house  with  flowers. 
Toward  nine  the  three  miners  said  that  as  they  had 
brought  their  instruments  they  might  as  well  tune 
up,  for  the  boys  and  girls  would  soon  be  arriving 
now,  and  hungry  for  a  good,  old-fashioned  break- 
down. A  fiddle,  a  banjo,  and  a  clarinet — these  were 
the  instruments.  The  trio  took  their  places  side  by 
side,  and  began  to  play  some  rattling  dance-music, 
and  beat  time  with  their  big  boots. 

It  was  getting  very  close  to  nine.  Henry  was 
standing  in  the  door  with  his  eyes  directed  up  the 
road,  his  body  swaying  to  the  torture  of  his  mental 
distress.  He  had  been  made  to  drink  his  wife's 
health  and  safety  several  times,  and  now  Tom 
shouted: 

"All  hands  stand  by!  One  more  drink,  and  she's 
here!" 

Joe  brought  the  glasses  on  a  waiter,  and  served 
the  party.  I  reached  for  one  of  the  two  remaining 
glasses,  but  Joe  growled,  under  his  breath: 

' '  Drop  that !    Take  the  other. ' ' 

Which  I  did.  Henry  was  served  last.  He  had 
hardly  swallowed  his  drink  when  the  clock  began  to 
strike.  He  listened  till  it  finished,  his  face  growing 
pale  and  paler;  then  he  said: 

"Boys,  I'm  sick  with  fear.  Help  me — I  want  to 
lie  down!" 

They  helped  him  to  the  sofa.  He  began  to  nestle 
and  drowse,  but  presently  spoke  like  one  talking  in 
his  sleep,  and  said:  "Did  I  hear  horses'  feet?  Have 
they  come?" 

One  of  the  veterans  answered,  close  to  his  ear:  "It 


MARK    TWAIN 

was  Jimmy  Parrish  come  to  say  the  party  got  de- 
layed, but  they're  right  up  the  road  a  piece,  and 
coming  along.  Her  horse  is  lame,  but  she'll  be  here 
in  half  an  hour." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  thankful  nothing  has  happened!" 
He  was  asleep  almost  before  the  words  were  out  of 
his  mouth.     In  a  moment  those  handy  men  had  his 
clothes  off,  and  had  tucked  him  into  his  bed  in  the 
chamber  where  I   had  washed  my  hands.     They 
closed  the  door  and  came  back.     Then  they  seemed 
preparing  to  leave;    but  I  said:    "Please  don't  go, 
gentlemen.     She  won't  know  me;  I  am  a  stranger." 
They  glanced  at  each  other.     Then  Joe  said: 
"She?    Poor   thing,    she's    been    dead   nineteen 
years!" 
"Dead?" 

"That  or  worse.  She  went  to  see  her  folks  half  a 
year  after  she  was  married,  and  on  her  way  back,  on 
a  Saturday  evening,  the  Indians  captured  her  within 
five  miles  of  this  place,  and  she's  never  been  heard  of 
since." 

"And  he  lost  his  mind  in  consequence?" 
"Never  has  been  sane  an  hour  since.  But  he  only 
gets  bad  when  that  time  of  the  year  comes  round. 
Then  we  begin  to  drop  in  here,  three  days  before 
she's  due,  to  encourage  him  up,  and  ask  if  he's  heard 
from  her,  and  Saturday  we  all  come  and  fix  up  the 
house  with  flowers,  and  get  everything  ready  for  a 
dance.  We've  done  it  every  year  for  nineteen  years. 
The  first  Saturday  there  was  twenty-seven  of  us, 
without  counting  the  girls;  there's  only  three  of  us 
now,  and  the  girls  are  all  gone.  We  drug  him  to 
194 


THE    CALIFORNIAN'S    TALE 

sleep,  or  he  would  go  wild;  then  he's  all  right  for  an- 
other year — thinks  she's  with  him  till  the  last  three 
or  four  days  come  round;  then  he  begins  to  look  for 
her,  and  gets  out  his  poor  old  letter,  and  we  come 
and  ask  him  to  read  it  to  us.  Lord,  she  was  a 
darling!" 


A  HELPLESS    SITUATION 

ONCE  or  twice  a  year  I  get  a  letter  of  a  cer- 
tain pattern,  a  pattern  that  never  materially 
changes,  in  form  and  substance,  yet  I  cannot  get  used 
to  that  letter — it  always  astonishes  me.  It  affects 
me  as  the  locomotive  always  affects  me:  I  say  to 
myself,  "I  have  seen  you  a  thousand  times,  you 
always  look  the  same  way,  yet  you  are  always  a 
wonder,  and  you  are  always  impossible;  to  contrive 
you  is  clearly  beyond  human  genius — you  can't 
exist,  you  don't  exist,  yet  here  you  are!" 

I  have  a  letter  of  that  kind  by  me,  a  very  old 
one.  I  yearn  to  print  it,  and  where  is  the  harm? 
The  writer  of  it  is  dead  years  ago,  no  doubt,  and  if 
I  conceal  her  name  and  address — her  this- world 
address — I  am  sure  her  shade  will  not  mind.  And 
with  it  I  wish  to  print  the  answer  which  I  wrote  at 
the  time  but  probably  did  not  send.  If  it  went — 
which  is  not  likely — it  went  in  the  form  of  a  copy, 
for  I  find  the  original  still  here,  pigeonholed  with 
the  said  letter.  To  that  kind  of  letters  we  all 
write  answersr  which  we  do  not  send,  fearing  to 
hurt  where  we  have  no  desire  to  hurt ;  I  have  done 
it  many  a  time,  and  this  is  doubtless  a  case  of  the 
sort. 

196 


A    HELPLESS    SITUATION 

THE  LETTER 

X .,  CALIFORNIA,  June  j,  1879. 

MR.  S.  L.  CLEMENS,  Hartford,  Conn.: 

DEAR  SIR, — You  will  doubtless  be  surprised  to 
know  who  has  presumed  to  write  and  ask  a  favor  of 
you.  Let  your  memory  go  back  to  your  days  in 
the  Humboldt  mines — '62-63.  You  will  remember, 
you  and  Clagett  and  Oliver  and  the  old  blacksmith 
Tillou  lived  in  a  lean-to  which  was  half-way  up  the 
gulch,  and  there  were  six  log  cabins  in  the  camp — 
strung  pretty  well  separated  up  the  gulch  from  its 
mouth  at  the  desert  to  where  the  last  claim  was,  at 
the  divide.  The  lean-to  you  lived  in  was  the  one 
with  a  canvas  roof  that  the  cow  fell  down  through  one 
night,  as  told  about  by  you  in  Roughing  It — my 
uncle  Simmons  remembers  it  very  well.  He  lived 
in  the  principal  cabin,  half-way  up  the  divide,  along 
with  Dixon  and  Parker  and  Smith.  It  had  two 
rooms,  one  for  kitchen  and  the  other  for  bunks,  and 
was  the  only  one  that  had.  You  and  your  party 
were  there  on  the  great  night,  the  time  they  had 
dried-apple-pie,  Uncle  Simmons  often  speaks  of  it. 
It  seems  curious  that  dried-apple-pie  should  have 
seemed  such  a  great  thing,  but  it  was,  and  it  shows 
how  far  Humboldt  was  out  of  the  world  and  difficult 
to  get  to,  and  how  slim  the  regular  bill  of  fare  was. 
Sixteen  years  ago — it  is  a  long  time.  I  was  a  little 
girl  then,  only  fourteen.  I  never  saw  you,  I  lived 
in  Washoe.  But  Uncle  Simmons  ran  across  you 
every  now  and  then,  all  during  those  weeks  that  you 
and  party  were  there  working  your  claim  which  was 
197 


MARK     TWAIN 

like  the  rest.  The  camp  played  out  long  and  long 
ago,  there  wasn't  silver  enough  in  it  to  make  a 
button.  You  never  saw  my  husband,  but  he  was 
there  after  you  left,  and  lived  in  that  very  lean-to,  a 
bachelor  then  but  married  to  me  now.  He  often 
wishes  there  had  been  a  photographer  there  in  those 
days,  he  would  have  taken  the  lean-to.  He  got  hurt 
in  the  old  Hal  Clayton  claim  that  was  abandoned 
like  the  others,  putting  in  a  blast  and  not  climbing 
out  quick  enough,  though  he  scrambled  the  best  he 
could.  It  landed  him  clear  down  on  the  trail  and 
hit  a  Piute.  For  weeks  they  thought  he  would  not 
get  over  it  but  he  did,  and  is  all  right,  now.  Has 
been  ever  since.  This  is  a  long  introduction  but  it 
is  the  only  way  I  can  make  myself  known.  The 
favor  I  ask  I  feel  assured  your  generous  heart  will 
grant:  Give  me  some  advice  about  a  book  I  have 
written.  I  do  not  claim  anything  for  it  only  it  is 
mostly  true  and  as  interesting  as  most  of  the  books 
of  the  times.  I  am  unknown  in  the  literary  world 
and  you  know  what  that  means  unless  one  has  some 
one  of  influence  (like  yourself)  to  help  you  by 
speaking  a  good  word  for  you.  I  would  like  to  place 
the  book  on  royalty  basis  plan  with  any  one  you 
would  suggest. 

This  is  a  secret  from  my  husband  and  family. 
I  intend  it  as  a  surprise  in  case  I  get  it  pub- 
lished. 

Feeling  you  will  take  an  interest  in  this  and  if 
possible  write  me  a  letter  to  some  publisher,  or, 
better  still,  if  you  could  see  them  for  me  and  then 
let  me  hear. 

198 


A    HELPLESS    SITUATION 

I  appeal  to  you  to  grant  me  this  favor.     With 
deepest  gratitude  I  thank  you  for  your  attention. 

One  knows,  without  inquiring,  that  the  twin  of 
that  embarrassing  letter  is  forever  and  ever  flying 
in  this  and  that  and  the  other  direction  across  the 
continent  in  the  mails,  daily,  nightly,  hourly,  un- 
ceasingly, unrestingly.  It  goes  to  every  well-known 
merchant,  and  railway  official,  and  manufacturer, 
and  capitalist,  and  Mayor,  and  Congressman,  and 
Governor,  and  editor,  and  publisher,  and  author,  and 
broker,  and  banker — in  a  word,  to  every  person  who 
is  supposed  to  have  "influence."  It  always  follows 
the  one  pattern:  "You  do  not  know  me,  but  you  once 
knew  a  relative  of  mine"  etc.,  etc.  We  should  all 
like  to  help  the  applicants,  we  should  all  be  glad  to 
do  it,  we  should  all  like  to  return  the  sort  of  answer 
that  is  desired,  but —  Well,  there  is  not  a  thing  we 
can  do  that  would  be  a  help,  for  not  in  any  instance 
does  that  letter  ever  come  from  anyone  who  can  be 
helped.  The  struggler  whom  you  could  help  does 
his  own  helping;  it  would  not  occur  to  him  to  apply 
to  you,  a  stranger.  He  has  talent  and  knows  it,  and 
he  goes  into  his  fight  eagerly  and  with  energy  and 
determination — all  alone,  preferring  to  be  alone. 
That  pathetic  letter  which  comes  to  you  from  the 
incapable,  the  unhelpable — how  do  you  who  are 
familiar  with  it  answer  it?  What  do  you  find  to 
say?  You  do  not  want  to  inflict  a  wound;  you 
hunt  ways  to  avoid  that.  What  do  you  find?  How 
do  you  get  out  of  your  hard  place  with  a  contented 
conscience?  Do  you  try  to  explain?  The  old  reply 
199 


MARK    TWAIN 

of  mine  to  such  a  letter  shows  that  I  tried  that  once. 
Was  I  satisfied  with  the  result?  Possibly;  and  pos- 
sibly not;  probably  not;  almost  certainly  not.  I 
have  long  ago  forgotten  all  about  it.  But,  anyway, 
I  append  my  effort: 

THE  REPLY 

I  know  Mr.  H.,  and  I  will  go  to  him,  dear  madam, 
if  upon  reflection  you  find  you  still  desire  it.  There 
will  be  a  conversation.  I  know  the  form  it  will  take. 
It  will  be  like  this: 

Mr.  H.  How  do  her  books  strike  you? 

Mr.  Clemens.  I  am  not  acquainted  with  them. 

H.  Who  has  been  her  publisher? 

C.  I  don't  know. 

H.  She  has  one,  I  suppose? 

C.  I— I  think  not. 

H.  Ah.     You  think  this  is  her  first  book? 

C.  Yes — I  suppose  so.     I  think  so. 

H.  What  is  it  about?  What  is  the  character  of 
it? 

C.  I  believe  I  do  not  know. 

H.  Have  you  seen  it? 

C.  Well— no,  I  haven't. 

H.  Ah-h.     How  long  have  you  known  her? 

C.  I  don't  know  her. 

H.  Don't  know  her? 

C.  No. 

H.  Ah-h.  How  did  you  come  to  be  interested  in 
her  book,  then? 

200 


A    HELPLESS    SITUATION 

C.  Well,  she — she  wrote  and  asked  me  to  find  a 
publisher  for  her,  and  mentioned  you. 

H.  Why  should  she  apply  to  you  instead  of 
to  me? 

C.  She  wished  me  to  use  my  influence. 

H.  Dear  me,  what  has  influence  to  do  with  such  a 
matter? 

C.  Well,  I  think  she  thought  you  would  be  more 
likely  to  examine  her  book  if  you  were  influenced. 

H.  Why,  what  we  are  here  for  is  to  examine  books 
— anybody's  book  that  comes  along.  It's  our  busi- 
ness. Why  should  we  turn  away  a  book  unexam- 
ined  because  it's  a  stranger's?  It  would  be  foolish. 
No  publisher  does  it.  On  what  ground  did  she  re- 
quest your  influence,  since  you  do  not  know  her? 
She  must  have  thought  you  knew  her  literature  and 
could  speak  for  it.  Is  that  it? 

C.  No;  she  knew  I  didn't. 

H.  Well,  what  then?  She  had  a  reason  of  some 
sort  for  believing  you  competent  to  recommend  her 
literature,  and  also  under  obligations  to  do  it? 

C.  Yes,  I — I  knew  her  uncle, 

H.  Knew  her  uncle? 

C.  Yes. 

H.  Upon  my  word!  So,  you  knew  her  uncle;  her 
uncle  knows  her  literature;  he  indorses  it  to  you; 
the  chain  is  complete,  nothing  further  needed;  you 
are  satisfied,  and  therefore — 

C.  No,  that  isn't  all,  there  are  other  ties.  I  know 
the  cabin  her  uncle  lived  in,  in  the  mines;  I  knew  his 
partners,  too ;  also  I  came  near  knowing  her  husband 
before  she  married  him,  and  I  did  know  the  aban- 


MARK    TWAIN 

doned  shaft  where  a  premature  blast  went  off  and  he 
went  flying  through  the  air  and  clear  down  to  the 
trail  and  hit  an  Indian  in  the  back  with  almost  fatal 
consequences. 

H.  To  him,  or  to  the  Indian? 

C.  She  didn't  say  which  it  was. 

H.  (With  a  sigh).  It  certainly  beats  the  band! 
You  don't  know  her,  you  don't  know  her  literature, 
you  don't  know  who  got  hurt  when  the  blast  went 
off,  you  don't  know  a  single  thing  for  us  to  build  an 
estimate  of  her  book  upon,  so  far  as  I — 

C.  I  knew  her  uncle.  You  are  forgetting  her 
uncle. 

H.  Oh,  what  use  is  he?  Did  you  know  him  long  ? 
How  long  was  it  ? 

C.  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  really  knew  him,  but 
I  must  have  met  him,  anyway.  I  think  it  was  that 
way;  you  can't  tell  about  these  things,  you  know, 
except  when  they  are  recent. 

H.  Recent?     When  was  all  this? 

C.  Sixteen  years  ago. 

H.  What  a  basis  to  judge  a  book  upon!  At  first 
you  said  you  knew  him,  and  now  you  don't  know 
whether  you  did  or  not. 

C.  Oh  yes,  I  knew  him;  anyway,  I  think  I  thought 
I  did;  I'm  perfectly  certain  of  it. 

H .  What  makes  you  think  you  thought  you  knew 
him? 

C.  Why,  she  says  I  did,  herself. 

H.  She  says  so! 

C.  Yes,  she  does,  and  I  did  know  him,  too,  though 
I  don't  remember  it  now. 


A    HELPLESS    SITUATION 

H.  Come — how  can  you  know  it  when  you  don't 
remember  it. 

C.  I  don't  know.  That  is,  I  don't  know  the 
process,  but  I  do  know  lots  of  things  that  I  don't  re- 
member, and  remember  lots  of  things  that  I  don't 
know.  It's  so  with  every  educated  person. 

H.  (After  a  pause.)  Is  your  time  valuable? 

C.  No — well,  not  very. 

H.  Mine  is. 

So  I  came  away  then,  because  he  was  looking  tired. 
Overwork,  I  reckon;  I  never  do  that;  I  have  seen 
the  evil  effects  of  it.  My  mother  was  always  afraid 
I  would  overwork  myself,  but  I  never  did. 

Dear  madam,  you  see  how  it  would  happen  if  I 
went  there.  He  would  ask  me  those  questions,  and 
I  would  try  to  answer  them  to  suit  him,  and  he 
would  hunt  me  here  and  there  and  yonder  and  get 
me  embarrassed  more  and  more  all  the  time,  and  at 
last  he  would  look  tired  on  account  of  overwork,  and 
there  it  would  end  and  nothing  done.  I  wish  I 
could  be  useful  to  you,  but,  you  see,  they  do  not  care 
for  uncles  or  any  of  those  things;  it  doesn't  move 
them,  it  doesn't  have  the  least  effect,  they  don't  care 
for  anything  but  the  literature  itself,  and  they  as 
good  as  despise  influence.  But  they  do  care  for 
books,  and  are  eager  to  get  them  and  examine  them, 
no  matter  whence  they  come,  nor  from  whose  pen. 
If  you  will  send  yours  to  a  publisher — any  publisher 
— he  will  certainly  examine  it,  I  can  assure  you  of 
that. 


203 


A  TELEPHONIC  CONVERSATION 

CONSIDER  that  a  conversation  by  telephone— 
when  you  are  simply  sitting  by  and  not  taking 
any  part  in  that  conversation — is  one  of  the  solemn- 
est  curiosities  of  this  modern  life.  Yesterday  I  was 
writing  a  deep  article  on  a  sublime  philosophical  sub- 
ject while  such  a  conversation  was  going  on  in  the 
room.  I  notice  chat  one  can  always  write  best  when 
somebody  is  talking  through  a  telephone  close  by. 
Well,  the  thing  began  in  this  way.  A  member  of 
our  household  came  in  and  asked  me  to  have  our 
house  put  into  communication  with  Mr.  Bagley's 
down- town.  I  have  observed,  in  many  cities,  that 
the  sex  always  shrink  from  calling  up  the  central 
office  themselves.  I  don't  know  why,  but  they  do. 
So  I  touched  the  bell,  and  this  talk  ensued : 

Central  Office.     (Gruffly.}     Hello! 

J.  Is  it  the  Central  Office? 

C.  O.  Of  course  it  is.     What  do  you  want? 

7.  Will  you  switch  me  on  to  the  Bagleys,  please? 

C.  0.  All  right.     Just  keep  your  ear  to  the  tele- 
phone. 

Then  I  heard,  k-look,  k-look,  Vlook—klook-Mook- 
klook-look-look!   then  a  horrible  "gritting"  of  teeth, 
and  finally  a  piping  female  voice :  Y-e-s  ?     (Rising  in- 
flection.}    Did  you  wish  to  speak  to  me? 
204 


A    TELEPHONIC    CONVERSATION 

Without  answering,  I  handed  the  telephone  to  the 
applicant,  and  sat  down.  Then  followed  that  queer- 
est of  all  the  queer  things  in  this  world — a  conver- 
sation with  only  one  end  to  it.  You  hear  questions 
asked;  you  don't  hear  the  answer.  You  hear  invita- 
tions given;  you  hear  no  thanks  in  return.  You 
have  listening  pauses  of  dead  silence,  followed  by 
apparently  irrelevant  and  unjustifiable  exclamations 
of  glad  surprise  or  sorrow  or  dismay.  You  can't 
make  head  or  tail  of  the  talk,  because  you  never 
hear  anything  that  the  person  at  the  other  end  of 
the  wire  says.  Well,  I  heard  the  following  remark- 
able series  of  observations,  all  from  the  one  tongue, 
and  all  shouted — for  you  can't  ever  persuade  the  sex 
to  speak  gently  into  a  telephone: 

Yes?    Why,  how  did  that  happen? 

Pause. 

What  did  you  say? 

Pause. 

Oh  no,  I  don't  think  it  was 

Pause. 

No!  Oh  no,  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  meant,  put  it  in 
while  it  is  still  boiling — or  just  before  it  conies  to  a 
boil. 

Pause. 

WHAT? 

Pause. 

I  turned  it  over  with  a  backstitch  on  the  selvage 
edge. 

Pause. 

Yes,  I  like  that  way,  too;  but  I  think  it's  better 
to  baste  it  on  with  Valenciennes  or  bombazine,  or 
205 


MARK    TWAIN 

something  of  that  sort.     It  gives  it  such  an  air — 
and  attracts  so  much  notice. 

Pause. 

It's  forty-ninth  Deuteronomy,  sixty-fourth  to 
ninety-seventh  inclusive.  I  think  we  ought  all  to 
read  it  often. 

Pause. 

Perhaps  so ;  I  generally  use  a  hair-pin. 

Pause. 

What  did  you  say?  (Aside.)  Children,  do  be 
quiet ! 

Pause. 

Oh!  B  flat!  Dear  me,  I  thought  you  said  it  was 
the  cat! 

Pause. 

Since  when? 

Pause. 

Why,  I  never  heard  of  it. 

Pause. 

You  astound  me!     It  seems  utterly  impossible! 

Pause. 

Who  did? 

Pause. 

Good-ness  gracious! 

Pause. 

Well,  what  is  this  world  coming  to?  Was  it  right 
in  church? 

Pause. 

And  was  her  mother  there? 

Pause. 

Why,  Mrs.  Bagley,  I  should  have  died  of  humilia- 
tion! What  did  they  do? 

206 


A    TELEPHONIC    CONVERSATION 

Long  pause. 

I  can't  be  perfectly  sure,  because  I  haven't  the 
notes  by  me ;  but  I  think  it  goes  something  like  this : 
te-rolly-loll-loll,  loll  lolly-loll-loll,  O  tolly-loll-loll-k*- 
ly-li-i-do\  And  then  repeat,  you  know. 

Pause. 

Yes,  I  think  it  is  very  sweet — and  very  solemn 
and  impressive,  if  you  get  the  andantino  and  the 
pianissimo  right. 

Pause. 

Oh,  gum-drops,  gum-drops!  But  I  never  allow 
them  to  eat  striped  candy.  And  of  course  they 
can't,  till  they  get  their  teeth,  anyway. 

Pause. 

What? 

Pause. 

Oh,  not  in  the  least — go  right  on  He's  here 
writing — it  doesn't  bother  him. 

Pause. 

Very  well,  I'll  come  if  I  can.  (Aside.)  Dear  me, 
how  it  does  tire  a  person's  arm  to  hold  this  thing  up 
so  long!  I  wish  she'd — 

Pause. 

Oh  no,  not  at  all;  I  like  to  talk — but  I'm  afraid 
I'm  keeping  you  from  your  affairs. 

Pause. 

Visitors? 

Pause. 

No,  we  never  use  butter  on  them. 

Pause. 

Yes,  that  is  a  very  good  way;  but  all  the  cook- 
books say  they  are  very  unhealthy  when  they  are 
207 


MARK    TWAIN 

out  of  season.  And  he  doesn't  like  them,  anyway — 
especially  canned. 

Pause. 

Oh,  I  think  that  is  too  high  for  them;  we  have 
never  paid  over  fifty  cents  a  bunch. 

Pause. 

Must  you  go?    Well,  good-by. 

Pause. 

Yes,  I  think  so.     Good-by. 

Pause. 

Four  o'clock,  then — I'll  be  ready.    Good-by. 

Pause. 

Thank  you  ever  so  much.     Good-by. 

Pause. 

Oh,  not  at  all!— just  as  fresh—  Which?  Oh,  I'm 
glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  Good-by. 

(Hangs  up  the  telephone  and  says,  "Oh,  it  does 
tire  a  person's  arm  so!") 

A  man  delivers  a  single  brutal  "Good-by,"  and 
that  is  the  end  of  it.  Not  so  with  the  gentle  sex — I 
say  it  in  their  praise;  they  cannot  abide  abruptness. 


EDWARD    MILLS    AND    GEORGE 
BENTON:   A  TALE 

THESE  two  were  distantly  related  to  each  other 
— seventh  counsins,  or  something  of  that  sort. 
While  still  babies  they  became  orphans,  and  were 
adopted  by  the  Brants,  a  childless  couple,  who 
quickly  grew  very  fond  of  them.  The  Brants  were 
always  saying:  "Be  pure,  honest,  sober,  industrious, 
and  considerate  of  others,  and  success  in  life  is 
assured."  The  children  heard  this  repeated  some 
thousands  of  times  before  they  understood  it;  they 
could  repeat  it  themselves  long  before  they  could 
say  the  Lord's  Prayer;  it  was  painted  over  the 
nursery  door,  and  was  about  the  first  thing  they 
learned  to  read.  It  was  destined  to  become  the  un- 
swerving rule  of  Edward  Mills's  life.  Sometimes  the 
Brants  changed  the  wording  a  little,  and  said:  "Be 
pure,  honest,  sober,  industrious,  considerate,  and 
you  will  never  lack  friends." 

Baby  Mills  was  a  comfort  to  everybody  about  him. 
When  he  wanted  candy  and  could  not  have  it,  he 
listened  to  reason,  and  contented  himself  without  it. 
When  Baby  Benton  wanted  candy,  he  cried  for  it 
until  he  got  it.  Baby  Mills  took  care  of  his  toys; 
Baby  Benton  always  destroyed  his  in  a  very  brief 
time,  and  then  made  himself  so  insistently  dis- 
209 


MARK    TWAIN 

agreeable  that,  in  order  to  have  peace  in  the  house, 
little  Edward  was  persuaded  to  yield  up  his  play- 
things to  him. 

When  the  children  were  a  little  older,  Georgie  be- 
came a  heavy  expense  in  one  respect :  he  took  no  care 
of  his  clothes;  consequently,  he  shone  frequently  in 
new  ones,  which  was  not  the  case  with  Eddie.  The 
boys  grew  apace.  Eddie  was  an  increasing  com- 
fort, Georgie  an  increasing  solicitude.  It  was  al- 
ways sufficient  to  say,  in  answer  to  Eddie's  petitions, 
"I  would  rather  you  would  not  do  it" — meaning 
swimming,  skating,  picnicking,  berrying,  circusing, 
and  all  sorts  of  things  which  boys  delight  in.  But 
no  answer  was  sufficient  for  Georgie;  he  had  to  be 
humored  in  his  desires,  or  he  would  carry  them  with 
a  high  hand.  Naturally,  no  boy  got  more  swimming, 
skating,  berrying,  and  so  forth  than  he;  no  boy  ever 
had  a  better  time.  The  good  Brants  did  not  allow 
the  boys  to  play  out  after  nine  in  summer  evenings ; 
they  were  sent  to  bed  at  that  hour;  Eddie  honorably 
remained,  but  Georgie  usually  slipped  out  of  the 
window  toward  ten,  and  enjoyed  himself  till  mid- 
night. It  seemed  impossible  to  break  Georgie  of  this 
bad  habit,  but  the  Brants  managed  it  at  last  by  hiring 
him,  with  apples  and  marbles,  to  stay  in.  The  good 
Brants  gave  all  their  time  and  attention  to  vain 
endeavors  to  regulate  Georgie;  they  said,  with  grate- 
ful tears  in  their  eyes,  that  Eddie  needed  no  efforts 
of  theirs,  he  was  so  good,  so  considerate,  and  in  all 
ways  so  perfect. 

By  and  by  the  boys  were  big  enough  to  work,  so 
they  were  apprenticed  to  a  trade ;  Edward  went  vol- 
210 


A    TALE 

untarily;  George  was  coaxed  and  bribed.  Edward 
worked  hard  and  faithfully,  and  ceased  to  be  an  ex- 
pense to  the  good  Brants;  they  praised  him,  so  did 
his  master;  but  George  ran  away,  and  it  cost  Mr. 
Brant  both  money  and  trouble  to  hunt  him  up  and 
get  him  back.  By  and  by  he  ran  away  again — more 
money  and  more  trouble.  He  ran  away  a  third 
time — and  stole  a  few  little  things  to  carry  with 
him.  Trouble  and  expense  for  Mr.  Brant  once 
more;  and,  besides,  it  was  with  the  greatest  dif- 
ficulty that  he  succeeded  in  persuading  the  mas- 
ter to  let  the  youth  go  unprosecuted  for  the  theft. 

Edward  worked  steadily  along,  and  in  time  be- 
came a  full  partner  in  his  master's  business.  George 
did  not  improve;  he  kept  the  loving  hearts  of  his 
aged  benefactors  full  of  trouble,  and  their  hands  full 
of  inventive  activities  to  protect  him  from  ruin. 
Edward,  as  a  boy,  had  interested  himself  in  Sunday- 
schools,  debating  societies,  penny  missionary  affairs, 
anti-tobacco  organizations,  anti-profanity  associa- 
tions, and  all  such  things;  as  a  man,  he  was  a  quiet 
but  steady  and  reliable  helper  in  the  church,  the 
temperance  societies,  and  in  all  movements  looking 
to  the  aiding  and  uplifting  of  men.  This  excited 
no  remark,  attracted  no  attention — for  it  was  his 
"natural  bent." 

Finally,  the  old  people  died.  The  will  testified 
their  loving  pride  in  Edward,  and  left  their  little 
property  to  George — because  he ' '  needed  it " ;  where- 
as, "owing  to  a  bountiful  Providence,"  such  was  not 
the  case  with  Edward.  The  property  was  left  to 
George  conditionally:  he  must  buy  out  Edward's 


MARK    TWAIN 

partner  with  it;  else  it  must  go  to  a  benevolent  or- 
ganization called  the  Prisoner's  Friend  Society.  The 
old  people  left  a  letter,  in  which  they  begged  their 
dear  son  Edward  to  take  their  place  and  watch 
over  George,  and  help  and  shield  him  as  they  had 
done. 

Edward  dutifully  acquiesced,  and  George  became 
his  partner  in  the  business.  He  was  not  a  valuable 
partner :  he  had  been  meddling  with  drink  before ;  he 
soon  developed  into  a  constant  tippler  now,  and  his 
his  flesh  and  eyes  showed  the  fact  unpleasantly. 
Edward  had  been  courting  a  sweet  and  kindly 
spirited  girl  for  some  time.  They  loved  each  other 
dearly,  and —  But  about  this  period  George  be- 
gan to  haunt  her  tearfully  and  imploringly,  and  at 
-last  she  went  crying  to  Edward,  and  said  her  high 
and  holy  duty  was  plain  before  her — she  must  not 
let  her  own  selfish  desires  interfere  with  it :  she  must 
marry  "poor  George"  and  "reform  him."  It  would 
break  her  heart,  she  knew  it  would,  and  so  on;  but 
duty  was  duty.  So  she  married  George,  and  Ed- 
ward's heart  came  very  near  breaking,  as  well  as  her 
own.  However,  Edward  recovered,  and  married 
another  girl — a  very  excellent  one  she  was,  too. 

Children  came  to  both  families.  Mary  did  her 
honest  best  to  reform  her  husband,  but  the  contract 
was  too  large.  George  went  on  drinking,  and  by 
and  by  he  fell  to  misusing  her  and  the  little  ones 
sadly.  A  great  many  good  people  strove  with 
George — they  were  always  at  it,  in  fact — but  he 
calmly  took  such  efforts  as  his  due  and  their  duty, 
and  did  not  mend  his  ways.  He  added  a  vice,  pres- 

212 


A   TALE 

ently — that  of  secret  gambling.  He  got  deeply  in 
debt;  he  borrowed  money  on  the  firm's  credit,  as 
quietly  as  he  could,  and  carried  this  system  so  far 
and  so  successfully  that  one  morning  the  sheriff  took 
possession  of  the  establishment,  and  the  two  cousins 
found  themselves  penniless. 

Times  were  hard,  now,  and  they  grew  worse.  Ed- 
ward moved  his  family  into  a  garret,  and  walked  the 
streets  day  and  night,  seeking  work.  He  begged  for 
it,  but  it  was  really  not  to  be  had.  He  was  aston- 
ished to  see  how  soon  his  face  became  unwelcome; 
he  was  astonished  and  hurt  to  see  how  quickly  the 
ancient  interest  which  people  had  had  in  him  faded 
out  and  disappeared.  Still,  he  must  get  work;  so  he 
swallowed  his  chagrin,  and  toiled  on  in  search  of  it. 
At  last  he  got  a  job  of  carrying  bricks  up  a  ladder  in 
a  hod,  and  was  a  grateful  man  in  consequence;  but 
after  that  nobody  knew  him  or  cared  anything  about 
him.  He  was  not  able  to  keep  up  his  dues  in  the 
various  moral  organizations  to  which  he  belonged, 
and  had  to  endure  the  sharp  pain  of  seeing  himself 
brought  under  the  disgrace  of  suspension. 

But  the  faster  Edward  died  out  of  public  knowl- 
edge and  interest,  the  faster  George  rose  in  them. 
He  was  found  lying,  ragged  and  drunk,  in  the  gutter 
one  morning.  A  member  of  the  Ladies'  Temper- 
ance Refuge  fished  him  out,  took  him  in  hand,  got 
up  a  subscription  for  him,  kept  him  sober  a  whole 
week,  then  got  a  situation  for  him.  An  account  of 
it  was  published. 

General  attention  was  thus  drawn  to  the  poor  fel- 
low, and  a  great  many  people  came  forward,  and 
213 


MARK    TWAIN 

helped  him  toward  reform  with  their  countenance 
and  encouragement.  He  did  not  drink  a  drop  for 
two  months,  and  meantime  was  the  pet  of  the  good. 
Then  he  fell — in  the  gutter;  and  there  was  general 
sorrow  and  lamentation.  But  the  noble  sisterhood 
rescued  him  again.  They  cleaned  him  up,  they  fed 
him,  they  listened  to  the  mournful  music  of  his  re- 
pentances, they  got  him  his  situation  again.  An  ac- 
count of  this,  also,  was  published,  and  the  town  was 
drowned  in  happy  tears  over  the  re-restoration  of 
the  poor  beast  and  struggling  victim  of  the  fatal 
bowl.  A  grand  temperance  revival  was  got  up,  and 
after  some  rousing  speeches  had  been  made  the  chair- 
man said,  impressively:  "We  are  now  about  to  call 
for  signers;  and  I  think  there  is  a  spectacle  in  store 
for  you  which  not  many  in  this  house  will  be  able  to 
view  with  dry  eyes."  There  was  an  eloquent  pause, 
and  then  George  Benton,  escorted  by  a  red-sashed 
detachment  of  the  Ladies  of  the  Refuge,  stepped 
forward  upon  the  platform  and  signed  the  pledge. 
The  air  was  rent  with  applause,  and  everybody  cried 
for  joy.  Everybody  wrung  the  hand  of  the  new 
convert  when  the  meeting  was  over;  his  salary  was 
enlarged  next  day;  he  was  the  talk  of  the  town,  and 
its  hero.  An  account  of  it  was  published. 

George  Benton  fell,  regularly,  every  three  months, 
but  was  faithfully  rescued  and  wrought  with,  every 
time,  and  good  situations  were  found  for  him. 
Finally,  he  was  taken  around  the  country  lecturing, 
as  a  reformed  drunkard,  and  he  had  great  houses  and 
did  an  immense  amount  of  good. 

He  was  so  popular  at  home,  and  so  trusted — during, 
214 


A    TALE 

his  sober  intervals — that  he  was  enabled  to  use  the 
name  of  a  principal  citizen,  and  get  a  large  sum  of 
money  at  the  bank.  A  mighty  pressure  was  brought 
to  bear  to  save  him  from  the  consequences  of  his 
forgery,  and  it  was  partially  successful — he  was 
"sent  up"  for  only  two  years.  When,  at  the  end 
of  a  year,  the  tireless  efforts  of  the  benevolent  were 
crowned  with  success,  and  he  emerged  from  the  peni- 
tentiary with  a  pardon  in  his  pocket,  the  Prisoner's 
Friend  Society  met  him  at  the  door  with  a  situation 
and  a  comfortable  salary,  and  all  the  other  benev- 
olent people  came  forward  and  gave  him  advice, 
encouragement,  and  help.  Edward  Mills  had  once 
applied  to  the  Prisoner's  Friend  Society  for  a  situa- 
tion, when  in  dire  need,  but  the  question,  "Have  you 
been  a  prisoner?"  made  brief  work  of  his  case. 

While  all  these  things  were  going  on,  Edward 
Mills  had  been  quietly  making  head  against  ad- 
versity. He  was  still  poor,  but  was  in  receipt  of  a 
steady  and  sufficient  salary,  as  the  respected  and 
trusted  cashier  of  a  bank.  George  Benton  never 
came  near  him,  and  was  never  heard  to  inquire  about 
him.  George  got  to  indulging  in  long  absences  from 
the  town;  there  were  ill  reports  about  him,  but 
nothing  definite. 

One  winter's  night  some  masked  burglars  forced 
their  way  into  the  bank,  and  found  Edward  Mills 
there  alone.  They  commanded  him  to  reveal  the 
''combination,"  so  that  they  could  get  into  the  safe. 
He  refused.  They  threatened  his  life.  He  said  his 
employers  trusted  him,  and  he  could  not  be  traitor 
to  that  trust.  He  could  die,  if  he  must,  but  while 
315 


MARK    TWAIN 

he  lived  he  would  be  faithful;  he  would  not  yield  up 
the  "combination."  The  burglars  killed  him. 

The  detectives  hunted  down  the  criminals;  the 
chief  one  proved  to  be  George  Benton.  A  wide  sym- 
pathy was  felt  for  the  widow  and  orphans  of  the 
dead  man,  and  all  the  newspapers  in  the  land  begged 
that  all  the  banks  in  the  land  would  testify  their 
appreciation  of  the  fidelity  and  heroism  of  the 
murdered  cashier  by  coming  forward  with  a  generous 
contribution  of  money  in  aid  of  his  family,  now 
bereft  of  support.  The  result  was  a  mass  of  solid 
cash  amounting  to  upward  of  five  hundred  dollars — 
an  average  of  nearly  three-eighths  of  a  cent  for  each 
bank  in  the  Union.  The  cashier's  own  bank  testified 
its  gratitude  by  endeavoring  to  show  (but  humili- 
atingly  failed  in  it)  that  the  peerless  servant's  ac- 
counts were  not  square,  and  that  he  himself  had 
knocked  his  brains  out  with  a  bludgeon  to  escape 
detection  and  punishment. 

George  Benton  was  arraigned  for  trial.  Then 
everybody  seemed  to  forget  the  widow  and  orphans 
in  their  solicitude  for  poor  George.  Everything  that 
money  and  influence  could  do  was  done  to  save  him, 
but  it  all  failed ;  he  was  sentenced  to  death.  Straight- 
way the  Governor  was  besieged  with  petitions  for 
'commutation  or  pardon;  they  were  brought  by  tear- 
ful young  girls;  by  sorrowful  old  maids;  by  deputa- 
tions of  pathetic  widows;  by  shoals  of  impressive 
orphans.  But  no,  the  Governor — for  once — would 
not  yield. 

Now  George  Benton  experienced  religion.  The 
glad  news  flew  all  around.  From  that  time  forth  his 
216 


A   TALE 

cell  was  always  full  of  girls  and  women  and  fresh 
flowers ;  all  the  day  long  there  was  prayer,  and  hymn- 
singing,  and  thanksgivings,  and  homilies,  and  tears, 
with  never  an  interruption,  except  an  occasional 
five-minute  intermission  for  refreshments. 

This  sort  of  thing  continued  up  to  the  very  gallows, 
and  George  Benton  went  proudly  home,  in  the  black 
cap,  before  a  wailing  audience  of  the  sweetest  and 
best  that  the  region  could  produce.  His  grave  had 
fresh  flowers  on  it  every  day,  for  a  while,  and  the 
head-stone  bore  these  words,  under  a  hand  pointing 
aloft:  "He  has  fought  the  good  fight." 

The  brave  cashier's  head-stone  has  this  inscription : 
"Be  pure,  honest,  sober,  industrious,  considerate,  and 
you  will  never — " 

Nobody  knows  who  gave  the  order  to  leave  it  that 
way,  but  it  was  so  given. 

The  cashier's  family  are  in  stringent  circumstances, 
now,  it  is  said;  but  no  matter;  a  lot  of  appreciative 
peogle,  who  were  not  willing  that  an  act  so  brave 
and  true  as  his  should  go  unrewarded,  have  collected 
forty-two  thousand  dollars — and  built  a  Memorial 
Church  with  it. 


THE    FIVE    BOONS   OF    LIFE 

CHAPTER   I 

IN  the  morning  of  life  came  the  good  fairy  with  her 
basket,  and  said: 

"Here  are  gifts.  Take  one,  leave  the  others. 
And  be  wary,  choose  wisely;  oh,  choose  wisely!  for 
only  one  of  them  is  valuable." 

The  gifts  were  five :  Fame,  Love,  Riches,  Pleasure, 
Death.  The  youth  said,  eagerly: 

"There  is  no  need  to  consider";  and  he  chose 
Pleasure. 

He  went  out  into  the  world  and  sought  out  the 
pleasures  that  youth  delights  in.  But  each  in  its 
turn  was  short-lived  and  disappointing,  vain  and 
empty;  and  each,  departing,  mocked  him.  In  the 
end  he  said:  "These  years  I  have  wasted.  If  I 
could  but  choose  again,  I  would  choose  wisely." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  fairy  appeared,  and  said: 
"Four  of  the  gifts  remain.    Choose  once  more; 
and  oh,  remember — time  is  flying,  and  only  one  of 
them  is  precious." 

The  man  considered  long,  then  chose  Love;  and 
did  not  mark  the  tears  that  rose  in  the  fairy's  eyes. 

After  many,  many  years  the  man  sat  by  a  coffin, 
in  an  empty  home.  And  he  communed  with  him- 
self, saying:  "One  by  one  they  have  gone  away  and 
left  me;  and  now  she  lies  here,  the  dearest  and  the 
last.  Desolation  after  desolation  has  swept  over 
me;  for  each  hour  of  happiness  the  treacherous 
trader,  Love,  has  sold  me  I  have  paid  a  thousand 
hours  of  grief.  Out  of  my  heart  of  hearts  I  curse 
him." 


CHAPTER  III 

again."  It  was  the  fairy  speaking.' 
' '  The  years  have  taught  you  wisdom — surely 
it  must  be  so.  Three  gifts  remain.  Only  one  of  them 
has  any  worth — remember  it,  and  choose  warily." 

The  man  reflected  long,  then  chose  Fame;  and  the 
fairy,  sighing,  went  her  way. 

Years  went  by  and  she  came  again,  and  stood 
behind  the  man  where  he  sat  solitary  in  the  fading 
day,  thinking.  And  she  knew  his  thought: 

"My  name  filled  the  world,  and  its  praises  were  on 
every  tongue,  and  it  seemed  well  with  me  for  a  little 
while.  How  little  a  while  it  was !  Then  came  envy ; 
then  detraction;  then  calumny;  then  hate;  then  per- 
secution. Then  derision,  which  is  the  beginning  of 
the  end.  And  last  of  all  came  pity,  which  is  the 
funeral  of  fame.  Oh,  the  bitterness  and  misery  of 
renown!  target  for  mud  in  its  prime,  for  contempt 
and  compassion  in  its  decay." 


CHAPTER  IV 

"/^HOOSE  yet  again."    It  was  the  fairy's  voice. 

V^/'Two  gifts  remain.  And  do  not  despair.  In 
the  beginning  there  was  but  one  that  was  precious, 
and  it  is  still  here." 

"Wealth — which  is  power!  How  blind  I  was!" 
said  the  man.  "Now,  at  last,  life  will  be  worth  the 
living.  I  will  spend,  squander,  dazzle  These  mock- 
ers and  despisers  will  crawl  in  the  dirt  before  me, 
and  I  will  feed  my  hungry  heart  with  their  envy.  I 
will  have  all  luxuries,  all  joys,  all  enchantments  of 
the  spirit,  all  contentments  of  the  body  that  man 
holds  dear.  I  will  buy,  buy,  buy!  deference,  respect, 
esteem,  worship — every  pinchbeck  grace  of  life  the 
market  of  a  trivial  world  can  furnish  forth.  I  have 
lost  much  time,  and  chosen  badly  heretofore,  but  let 
that  pass;  I  was  ignorant  then,  and  could  but  take 
for  best  what  seemed  so." 

Three  short  years  went  by,  and  a  day  came  when 
the  man  sat  shivering  in  a  mean  garret;  and  he  was 
gaunt  and  wan  and  hollow-eyed,  and  clothed  in  rags; 
and  he  was  gnawing  a  dry  crust  and  mumbling: 

"Curse  all  the  world's  gifts,  for  mockeries  and 
gilded  lies!  And  miscalled,  every  one.  They  are 
not  gifts,  but  merely  lendings.  Pleasure,  Love, 
Fame,  Riches:  they  are  but  temporary  disguises  for 

221 


MARK    TWAIN 

lasting  realities — Pain,  Grief,  Shame,  Poverty.  The 
fairy  said  true ;  in  all  her  store  there  was  but  one  gift 
which  was  precious,  only  one  that  was  not  valueless. 
How  poor  and  cheap  and  mean  I  know  those  others 
now  to  be,  compared  with  that  inestimable  one,  that 
dear  and  sweet  and  kindly  one,  that  steeps  in  dream- 
less and  enduring  sleep  the  pains  that  persecute  the 
body,  and  the  shames  and  griefs  that  eat  the  mind 
and  heart.  Bring  it!  I  am  weary,  I  would  rest." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  fairy  came,  bringing  again  four  of  the  gifts, 
but  Death  was  wanting.     She  said: 
"I  gave  it  to  a  mother's  pet,  a  little  child.     It  was 
ignorant,  but  trusted  me,  asking  me  to  choose  for 
it.     You  did  not  ask  me  to  choose." 

"Oh,  miserable  me!     What  is  there  left  for  me?" 
"What  not  even  you  have  deserved:  the  wanton 
insult  of  Old  Age." 


THE    FIRST    WRITING-MACHINES 

FROM   MY   UNPUBLISHED   AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

SOME  days  ago  a  correspondent  sent  in  an  old 
typewritten    sheet,    faded    by    age,    containing 
the  following  letter  over  the  signature  of  Mark  Twain 

"  HARTFORD,  March  ip,  1875. 

"Please  do  not  use  my  name  in  any  way.  Please 
do  not  even  divulge  the  fact  that  I  own  a  machine. 
I  have  entirely  stopped  using  the  typewriter,  for  the 
reason  that  I  never  could  write  a  letter  with  it  to 
anybody  without  receiving  a  request  by  return  mail 
that  I  would  not  only  describe  the  machine,  but  state 
what  progress  I  had  made  in  the  use  of  it,  etc.,  etc. 
I  don't  like  to  write  letters,  and  so  I  don't  want  people 
to  know  I  own  this  curiosity-breeding  little  joker." 

A  note  was  sent  to  Mr.  Clemens  asking  him  if 
the  letter  was  genuine  and  whether  he  really  had  a 
typewriter  as  long  ago  as  that.  Mr.  Clemens  replied 
that  his  best  answer  is  in  the  following  chapter  from 
his  unpublished  autobiography: 

1904.  Villa  Quarto,  Florence,  January. 
Dictating  autobiography  to  a  typewriter  is  a  new 
experience  for  me,  but  it  goes  very  well,  and  is  going 
224 


THE    FIRST    WRITING-MACHINES 

to  save  time  and  "language" — the  kind  of  language 
that  soothes  vexation. 

I  have  dictated  to  a  typewriter  before — but  not 
autobiography.  Between  that  experience  and  the 
present  one  there  lies  a  mighty  gap — more  than 
thirty  years!  It  is  a  sort  of  lifetime.  In  that  wide 
interval  much  has  happened — to  the  type-machine 
as  well  as  to  the  rest  of  us.  At  the  beginning  of 
that  interval  a  type-machine  was  a  curiosity.  The 
person  who  owned  one  was  a  curiosity,  too.  But 
now  it  is  the  other  way  about:  the  person  who 
doesn't  own  one  is  a  curiosity.  I  saw  a  type-machine 
for  the  first  time  in — what  year?  I  suppose  it  was 
1873 — because  Nasby  was  with  me  at  the  time,  and 
it  was  in  Boston.  We  must  have  been  lecturing,  or 
we  could  not  have  been  in  Boston,  I  take  it.  I 
quitted  the  platform  that  season. 

But  never  mind  about  that,  it  is  no  matter. 
Nasby  and  I  saw  the  machine  through  a  window, 
and  went  in  to  look  at  it.  The  salesman  explained 
it  to  us,  showed  us  samples  of  its  work,  and  said  it 
could  do  fifty-seven  words  a  minute — a  statement 
which  we  frankly  confessed  that  we  did  not  believe. 
So  he  put  his  type-girl  to  work,  and  we  timed  her  by 
the  watch.  She  actually  did  the  fifty-seven  in  sixty 
seconds.  We  were  partly  convinced,  but  said  it 
probably  couldn't  happen  again.  But  it  did.  We 
timed  the  girl  over  and  over  again — with  the  same 
result  always:  she  won  out.  She  did  her  work  on 
narrow  slips  of  paper,  and  we  pocketed  them  as  fast 
as  she  turned  them  out,  to  show  as  curiosities.  The 
price  of  the  machine  was  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
225 


MARK     TWAIN 

five  dollars.  I  bought  one,  and  we  went  away  very 
much  excited. 

At  the  hotel  we  got  out  our  slips  and  were  a  little 
disappointed  to  find  that  they  all  contained  the  same 
words.  The  girl  had  economized  time  and  labor  by 
using  a  formula  which  she  knew  by  heart.  How- 
ever, we  argued — safely  enough — that  the  first  type- 
girl  must  naturally  take  rank  with  the  first  billiard- 
player  :  neither  of  them  could  be  expected  to  get  out 
of  the  game  any  more  than  a  third  or  a  half  of  what 
was  in  it.  If  the  machine  survived — if  it  survived 
— experts  would  come  to  the  front,  by  and  by,  who 
would  double  this  girl's  output  without  a  doubt. 
They  would  do  one  hundred  words  a  minute — my 
talking  speed  on  the  platform.  That  score  has  long 
ago  been  beaten. 

At  home  I  played  with  the  toy,  repeating  and  re- 
peating and  repeating  "The  Boy  stood  on  the  Burn- 
ing Deck,"  until  I  could  turn  that  boy's  adventure 
out  at  the  rate  of  twelve  words  a  minute;  then  I  re- 
sumed the  pen,  for  business,  and  only  worked  the 
machine  to  astonish  inquiring  visitors.  They  car- 
ried off  many  reams  of  the  boy  and  his  burning  deck. 

By  and  by  I  hired  a  young  woman,  and  did  my 
first  dictating  (letters,  merely),  and  my  last  until 
now.  The  machine  did  not  do  both  capitals  and 
lower  case  (  as  now),  but  only  capitals.  Gothic  cap- 
itals they  were,  and  sufficiently  ugly.  I  remember 
the  first  letter  I  dictated.  It  was  to  Edward  Bok, 
who  was  a  boy  then.  I  was  not  acquainted  with 
him  at  that  time.  His  present  enterprising  spirit 
is  not  new  —  he  had  it  in  that  early  day.  He  was 
226 


THE    FIRST    WRITING-MACHINES 

accumulating  autographs,  and  was  not  content  with 
mere  signatures,  he  wanted  a  whole  autograph  letter. 
I  furnished  it — in  type-machine  capitals,  signature 
and  all.  It  was  long;  it  was  a  sermon;  it  contained 
advice;  also  reproaches.  I  said  writing  was  my 
trade,  my  bread-and-butter;  I  said  it  was  not  fair  to 
ask  a  man  to  give  away  samples  of  his  trade;  would 
he  ask  the  blacksmith  for  a  horseshoe?  would  he  ask 
the  doctor  for  a  corpse  ? 

Now  I  come  to  an  important  matter — as  I  regard 
it.  In  the  year  '74  the  young  woman  copied  a  con- 
siderable part  of  a  book  of  mine  on  the  machine.  In 
a  previous  chapter  of  this  Autobiography  I  have 
claimed  that  I  was  the  first  person  in  the  world  that 
ever  had  a  telephone  in  his  house  for  practical  pur- 
poses; I  will  now  claim — until  dispossessed — that  I 
was  the  first  person  in  the  world  to  apply  the  type- 
machine  to  literature.  That  book  must  have  been 
The  Adventures  of  Tom  Sawyer.  I  wrote  the  first 
half  of  it  in  '72,  the  rest  of  it  in  '74.  My  machinist 
type-copied  a  book  for  me  in  '74,  so  I  concluded  it 
was  that  one. 

That  early  machine  was  full  of  caprices,  full  of  de- 
fects— devilish  ones.  It  had  as  many  immoralities 
as  the  machine  of  to-day  has  virtues.  After  a  year 
or  two  I  found  that  it  was  degrading  my  character, 
so  I  thought  I  would  give  it  to  Howells.  He  was 
reluctant,  for  he  was  suspicious  of  novelties  and  un- 
friendly toward  them,  and  he  remains  so  to  this  day. 
But  I  persuaded  him.  He  had  great  confidence  in 
me,  and  I  got  him  to  believe  things  about  the  ma- 
chine that  I  did  not  believe  myself.  He  took  it 
227 


MARK     TWAIN 

home  to  Boston,  and  my  morals  began  to  improve, 
but  his  have  never  recovered. 

He  kept  it  six  months,  and  then  returned  it  to 
me.  I  gave  it  away  twice  after  that,  but  it  wouldn't 
stay;  it  came  back.  Then  I  gave  it  to  our  coach- 
man, Patrick  McAleer,  who  was  very  grateful,  be- 
cause he  did  not  know  the  animal,  and  thought  I 
was  trying  to  make  him  wiser  and  better.  As  soon 
as  he  got  wiser  and  better  he  traded  it  to  a  heretic 
for  a  side-saddle  which  he  could  not  use,  and  there 
my  knowledge  of  its  history  ends. 


ITALIAN   WITHOUT    A    MASTER 


IT  is  almost  a  fortnight  now  that  I  am  domiciled  in 
a  medieval  villa  in  the  country,  a  mile  or  two 
from  Florence.  I  cannot  speak  the  language;  I  am 
too  old  not  to  learn  how,  also  too  busy  when  I  am 
busy,  and  too  indolent  when  I  am  not;  wherefore 
some  will  imagine  that  I 
am  'having  a  dull  time  of 
it.  But  it  is  not  so.  The 
"help"  are  all  natives;  they 
talk  Italian  to  me,  I  answer 
in  English;  I  do  not  under- 
stand them,  they  do  not  un- 
derstand me,  consequently 
no  harm  is  done,  and  every- 
body is  satisfied.  In  order 
to  be  just  and  fair,  I  throw 
in  an  Italian  word  when  I 
have  one,  and  this  has  a 
good  influence.  I  get  the 
word  out  of  the  morning 
paper.  I  have  to  use  it 
while  it  is  fresh,  for  I  find 
that  Italian  words  do  not  keep  in  this  climate.  They 
fade  toward  night,  and  next  morning  they  are  gone. 
But  it  is  no  matter;  I  get  a  new  one  out  of  the 
229 


MARK    TWAIN 

paper  before  breakfast,  and  thrill  the  domestics  with 
it  while  it  lasts.  I  have  no  dictionary,  and  I  do  not 
want  one ;  I  can  select  my  words  by  the  sound,  or 
by  orthographic  aspect.  Many  of  them  have  a 
French  or  German  or  English  look,  and  these  are  the 
ones  I  enslave  for  the  day's 
service.  That  is,  as  a  rule. 
Not  always.  If  I  find  a 
learnable  phrase  that  has 
an  imposing  look  and  war- 
bles musically  along  I  do 
not  care  to  know  the  mean- 
ing of  it;  I  pay  it  out  to 
the  first  applicant,  knowing 
that  if  I  pronounce  it  care- 
fully he  will  understand  it, 
and  that's  enough. 

Yesterday's  word  was 
avanti.  It  sounds  Shake- 
spearian, and  probably 
means  Avaunt  and  quit  my 
sight.  To-day  I  have  a 
whole  phrase:  sono  dispia- 

centissimo.  I  do  not  know  what  it  means,  but  it 
seems  to  fit  in  everywhere  and  give  satisfaction. 
Although  as  a  rule  my  words  and  phrases  are  good 
for  one  day  and  train  only,  I  have  several  that  stay 
by  me  all  the  time,  for  some  unknown  reason,  and 
these  come  very  handy  when  I  get  into  a  long  con- 
versation and  need  things  to  fire  up  with  in  monoto- 
nous stretches.  One  of  the  best  ones  is  Dov'  $  il 
gatto.  It  nearly  always  produces  a  pleasant  surprise, 
230 


"  SONO  DISPIACENTISSIMO  " 


ITALIAN    WITHOUT   A    MASTER 

therefore  I  save  it  up  for  places  where  I  want  to  ex- 
press applause  or  admiration.  The  fourth  word  has 
a  French  sound,  and  I  think  the  phrase  means  "that 
takes  the  cake." 

During  my  first  week  in  the  deep  and  dreamy  still- 
ness of  this  woodsy  and  flowery  place  I  was  without 
news  of  the  outside  world,  and  was  well  content 
without  it.  It  had  been  four  weeks  since  I  had  seen 
a  newspaper,  and  this  lack  seemed  to  give  life  a 
new  charm  and  grace,  and  to  saturate  it  with  a 
feeling  verging  upon  actual  delight.  Then  came  a 
change  that  was  to  be  expected:  the  appetite  for 
news  began  to  rise  again,  after  this  invigorating  rest. 
I  had  to  feed  it,  but  I  was  not  willing  to  let  it  make 
me  its  helpless  slave  again;  I  determined  to  put  it 
on  a  diet,  and  a  strict  and  limited  one.  So  I  ex- 
amined an  Italian  paper,  with  the  idea  of  feeding  it 
on  that,  and  on  that  exclusively.  On  that  exclu- 
sively, and  without  help  of  a  dictionary.  In  this  way 
I  should  surely  be  well  protected  against  overloading 
and  indigestion. 

A  glance  at  the  telegraphic  page  filled  me  with 
encouragement.  There  were  no  scare-heads.  That 
was  good — supremely  good.  But  there  were  head- 
ings— one-liners  and  two-liners — and  that  was  good 
too;  for  without  these,  one  must  do  as  one  does  with 
a  German  paper — pay  our  precious  time  in  finding 
out  what  an  article  is  about,  only  to  discover,  in 
many  cases,  that  there  is  nothing  in  it  of  interest  to 
you.  The  head-line  is  a  valuable  thing. 

Necessarily  we  are  all  fond  of  murders,  scandals, 
swindles,   robberies,    explosions,    collisions,   and   all 
231 


MARK    TWAIN 

such  things,  when  we  know  the  people,  and  when 
they  are  neighbors  and  friends,  but  when  they  are 
strangers  we  do  not  get  any  great  pleasure  out  of 
them,  as  a  rule.  Now  the  trouble  with  an  American 
paper  is  that  it  has  no  discrimination;  it  rakes  the 
whole  earth  for  blood  and  garbage,  and  the  result  is 
that  you  are  daily  overfed  and  suffer  a  surfeit.  By 
habit  you  stow  this  muck  ever  day,  but  you  come 
by  and  by  to  take  no  vital  interest  in  it — indeed, 
you  almost  get  tired  of  it.  As  a  rule,  forty-nine- 
fiftieths  of  it  concerns  strangers  only — people  away 
off  yonder,  a  thousand  miles,  two  thousand  miles, 
ten  thousand  miles  from  where  you  are.  Why,  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  who  cares  what  becomes  of 
those  people?  I  would  not  give  the  assassination  of 
one  personal  friend  for  a  whole  massacre  of  those 
others.  And,  to  my  mind,  one  relative  or  neighbor 
mixed  up  in  a  scandal  is  more  interesting  than  a 
whole  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  of  outlanders  gone 
rotten.  Give  me  the  home  product  every  time. 

Very  well.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  Florentine 
paper  would  suit  me:  five  out  of  six  of  its  scandals 
and  tragedies  were  local;  they  were  adventures  of 
one's  very  neighbors,  one  might  almost  say  one's 
friends.  In  the  matter  of  world  news  there  was  not 
too  much,  but  just  about  enough.  I  subscribed.  I 
have  had  no  occasion  to  regret  it.  Every  morning  I 
get  all  the  news  I  need  for  the  day;  sometimes  from 
the  head-lines,  sometimes  from  the  text.  I  have 
never  had  to  call  for  a  dictionary  yet.  I  read  the 
paper  with  ease.  Often  I  do  not  quite  understand, 
often  some  of  the  details  escape  me,  but  no  matter,  I 
232 


ITALIAN    WITHOUT   A    MASTER 

get  the  idea.    I  will  cut  out  a  passage  or  two,  then 
you  will  see  how  limpid  the  language  is: 


The  first  line  means  that  the  Italian  sovereigns  are 
coming  back — they  have  been  to  England.  The 
second  line  seems  to  mean  that  they  enlarged  the 
King  at  the  Italian  hospital.  With  a  banquet,  I 
suppose.  An  English  banquet  has  that  effect. 
Further: 


Return  of  the  sovereigns  to  Rome,  you  see.  Date 
of  the  telegram,  Rome,  November  24,  ten  minutes 
before  twenty-three  o'clock.  The  telegram  seems  to 
say,  "The  Sovereigns  and  the  Royal  Children  expect 
themselves  at  Rome  to-morrow  at  fifty-one  minutes 
after  fifteen  o'clock." 

I  do  not  know  about  Italian  time,  but  I  judge  it 
begins  at  midnight  and  runs  through  the  twenty- 
four  hours  without  breaking  bulk.  In  the  following 
ad.  the  theaters  open  at  half-past  twenty.  If  these 
are  not  matinees,  20.30  must  mean  8.30  P.M.,  by  my 
reckoning. 

233 


234 


ITALIAN    WITHOUT   A    MASTER 


T&0"i)EL3 


The  whole  of  that  is  intelligible  to  me — and  sane 
and  rational,  too — except  the  remark  about  the  In- 
auguration of  a  Russian  Cheese.  That  one  over- 
sizes  my  hand.  Gimme  five  cards. 

This  is  a  four-page  paper;  and  as  it  is  set  in 
long  primer  leaded  and  has  a  page  of  advertise- 
ments, there  is  no  room  for  the  crimes,  disasters, 
and  general  sweepings  of  the  outside  world — thanks 
be!  To-day  I  find  only  a  single  importation  of 
the  off-color  sort: 


235 


MARK    TWAIN 

Twenty-seven  years  old,  and  scomparve — scam- 
pered—  on  the  gth  November.  You  see  by  the 
added  detail  that  she  departed  with  her  coach- 
man. I  hope  Sarebbe  has  not  made  a  mistake, 
but  I  am  afraid  the  chances  are  that  she  has.  Sono 
dispiacentissimo . 

There  are  several  fires:  also  a  couple  of  accidents. 
This  is  one  of  them : 


What  it  seems  to  say  is  this:  "Serious  Disgrace  on 
the  Old  Old  Bridge.  This  morning  about  7.30,  Mr. 
Joseph  Sciatti,  aged  55,  of  Casellina  and  Torri,  while 
standing  up  in  a  sitting  posture  on  top  of  a  carico 
barrow  of  verdure  (foliage?  hay?  vegetables?),  lost 
his  equilibrium  and  fell  on  himself,  arriving  with  his 
left  leg  under  one  of  the  wheels  of  the  vehicle. 

"Said  Sciatti  was  suddenly  harvested  (gathered 
in?)  by  several  citizens,  who  by  means  of  public  cab 
No.  365  transported  him  to  St.  John  of  God." 
236 


MARK    TWAIN 

Paragraph  No.  3  is  a  little  obscure,  but  I  think  it 
says  that  the  medico  set  the  broken  left  leg — right 
enough,^  since  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with 
the  other  one  —  and  that  several  are  encouraged 
to  hope  that  fifty  days  will  fetch  him  around 
in  quite  giudicandolo-guaribile  way,  if  no  complica- 
tions intervene. 

I  am  sure  I  hope  so  myself. 

There  is  a  great  and  peculiar  charm  about  reading 
news-scraps  in  a  language  which  you  are  not  ac- 
quainted with — the  charm  that  always  goes  with  the 
mysterious  and  the  uncertain.  You  can  never  be 
absolutely  sure  of  the  meaning  of  anything  you  read 
in  such  circumstances;  you  are  chasing  an  alert  and 
gamy  riddle  all  the  time,  and  the  baffling  turns  and 
dodges  of  the  prey  make  the  life  of  the  hunt.  A 
dictionary  would  spoil  it.  Sometimes  a  single  word 
of  doubtful  purport  will  cast  a  veil  of  dreamy  and 
golden  uncertainty  over  a  whole  paragraph  of  cold 
and  practical  certainties,  and  leave  steeped  in  a 
haunting  and  adorable  mystery  an  incident  which 
had  been  vulgar  and  commonplace  but  for  that 
benefaction.  Would  you  be  wise  to  draw  a  diction- 
ary on  that  gracious  word?  would  you  be  properly 
grateful? 

After  a  couple  of  days'  rest  I  now  come  back  to  my 
subject  and  seek  a  case  in  point.  I  find  it  without 
trouble,  in  the  morning  paper;  a  cablegram  from 
Chicago  and  Indiana  by  way  of  Paris.  All  the  words 
save  one  are  guessable  by  a  person  ignorant  of 
Italian: 


238 


MARK    TWAIN 


Translation. — "REVOLVERATION  IN  THEATER. 
Paris,  2?th.  La  Patrie  has  from  Chicago:  The  cop 
of  the  theater  of  the  opera  of  Wallace,  Indiana,  had 
willed  to  expel  a  spectator  which  continued  to  smoke 
in  spite  of  the  prohibition,  who,  spalleggiato  by  his 
friends,  tir6  (Fr.  tire*,  Anglice  pulled)  manifold  re- 
volver-shots. The  cop  responded.  Result,  a  gen- 
eral scare;  great  panic  among  the  spectators.  No- 
body hurt." 

It  is  bettable  that  that  harmless  cataclysm  in  the 
theater  of  the  opera  of  Wallace,  Indiana,  excited  not 
a  person  in  Europe  but  me,  and  so  came  near  to  not 
being  worth  cabling  to  Florence  by  way  of  France. 
But  it  does  excite  me.  It  excites  me  because  I  can- 
not make  out,  for  sure,  what  it  was  that  moved  that 
spectator  to  resist  the  officer.  I  was  gliding  along 
smoothly  and  without  obstruction  or  accident,  until 
I  came  to  that  word  "spalleggiato,"  then  the  bottom 
fell  out.  You  notice  what  a  rich  gloom,  what  a 
somber  and  pervading  mystery,  that  word  sheds  all 
over  the  whole  Wallachian  tragedy.  That  is  the 
charm  of  the  thing,  that  is  the  delight  of  it.  This  is 
where  you  begin,  this  is  where  you  revel.  You  can 
240 


MARK     TWAIN 

guess  and  guess,  and  have  all  the  fun  you  like;  you 
need  not  be  afraid  there  will  be  an  end  to  it ;  none  is 
possible,  for  no  amount  of  guessing  will  ever  furnish 
you  a  meaning  for  that  word  that  you  can  be  sure  is 
the  right  one.  All  the  other  words  give  you  hints, 
by  their  form,  their  sound,  or  their  spelling — this  one 
doesn't,  this  one  throws  out  no  hints,  this  one  keeps 
its  secret.  If  there  is  even  the  slightest  slight 
shadow  of  a  hint  anywhere,  it  lies  in  the  very  meagerly 
suggestive  fact  that  "spalleggiato"  carries  our 
word  ' '  egg ' '  in  its  stomach.  Well,  make  the  most  out 
of  it,  and  then  where  are  you  at?  You  conjecture 
that  the  spectator  which  was  smoking  in  spite  of  the 
prohibition  and  become  reprohibited  by  the  guar- 
dians, was  "egged  on"  by  his  friends,  and  that  it  was 
owing  to  that  evil  influence  that  he  initiated  the  re- 
volveration  in  theater  that  has  galloped  under  the  sea 
and  come  crashing  through  the  European  press  with- 
out exciting  anybody  but  me.  But  are  you  sure,  are 
you  dead  sure,  that  that  was  the  way  of  it?  No. 
Then  the  uncertainty  remains,  the  mystery  abides, 
and  with  it  the  charm.  Guess  again. 

If  I  had  a  phrase-book  of  a  really  satisfactory  sort 
I  would  study  it,  and  not  give  all  my  free  time  to  un- 
dictionarial  readings,  but  there  is  no  such  work  on 
the  market.  The  existing  phrase-books  are  inade- 
quate. They  are  well  enough  as  far  as  they  go,  but 
when  you  fall  down  and  skin  your  leg  they  don't  tell 
you  what  to  say. 

242 


ITALIAN  WITH  GRAMMAR 

1  FOUND  that  a  person  of  large  intelligence  could 
read  this  beautiful  language  with  considerable 
facility  without  a  dictionary,  but  I  presently  found 
that  to  such  a  person  a  grammar  could  be  of  use  at 
times.  It  is  because,  if  he  does  not  know  the  Were's 
and  the  Was's  and  the  May-be' s  and  the  Has-been's 
apart,  confusions  and  uncertainties  can  arise.  He 
can  get  the  idea  that  a  thing  is  going  to  happen  next 
week  when  the  truth  is  that  it  has  already  happened 
week  before  last.  Even  more  previously,  sometimes. 
Examination  and  inquiry  showed  me  that  the  adjec- 
tives and  such  things  were  frank  and  fair-minded  and 
straightforward,  and  did  not  shuffle ;  it  was  the  Verb 
that  mixed  the  hands,  it  was  the  Verb  that  lacked 
stability,  it  was  the  Verb  that  had  no  permanent 
opinion  about  anything,  it  was  the  Verb  that  was 
always  dodging  the  issue  and  putting  out  the  light 
and  making  all  the  trouble. 

Further  examination,  further  inquiry,  further  re- 
flection, confirmed  this  judgment,  and  established 
beyond  peradventure  the  fact  that  the  Verb  was  the 
storm-center.  This  discovery  made  plain  the  right 
and  wise  course  to  pursue  in  order  to  acquire  certainty 
and  exactness  in  understanding  the  statements  which 
the  newspaper  was  daily  endeavoring  to  convey  to 
243 


MARK    TWAIN 

me:  I  must  catch  a  Verb  and  tame  it.  I  must  find 
out  its  ways,  I  must  spot  its  eccentricities,  I  must 
penetrate  its  disguises,  I  must  intelligently  foresee 
and  forecast  at  least  the  commoner  of  the  dodges  it 
was  likely  to  try  upon  a  stranger  in  given  circum- 
stances, I  must  get  in  on  its  main  shifts  and  head 
them  off,  I  must  learn  its  game  and  play  the  limit. 

I  had  noticed,  in  other  foreign  languages,  that 
verbs  are  bred  in  families,  and  that  the  members  of 
each  family  have  certain  features  or  resemblances 
that  are  common  to  that  family  and  distinguish  it 
from  the  other  families — the  other  kin,  the  cousins 
and  what  not.  I  had  noticed  that  this  family-mark 
is  not  usually  the  nose  or  the  hair,  so  to  speak,  but 
the  tail — the  Termination — and  that  these  tails  are 
quite  definitely  differentiated;  insomuch  that  an 
expert  can  tell  a  Pluperfect  from  a  Subjunctive  by 
its  tail  as  easily  and  as  certainly  as  a  cowboy  can 
tell  a  cow  from  a  horse  by  the  like  process,  the  result 
of  observation  and  culture.  I  should  explain  that  I 
am  speaking  of  legitimate  verbs,  those  verbs  which 
in  the  slang  of  the  grammar  are  called  Regular. 
There  are  others — I  am  not  meaning  to  conceal  this; 
others  called  Irregulars,  born  out  of  wedlock,  of  un- 
known and  uninteresting  parentage,  and  naturally 
destitute  of  family  resemblances,  as  regards  all 
features,  tails  included.  But  of  these  pathetic  out- 
casts I  have  nothing  to  say.  I  do  not  approve  of 
them,  I  do  not  encourage  them;  I  am  prudishly 
delicate  and  sensitive,  and  I  do  not  allow  them  to  be 
used  in  my  presence. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  I  decided  to  catch  one  of  the 
244 


ITALIAN    WITH    GRAMMAR 

others  and  break  it  to  harness.  One  is  enough/* 
Once  familiar  with  its  assortment  of  tails,  you  are 
immune;  after  that,  no  regular  verb  can  conceal  its 
specialty  from  you  and  make  you  think  it  is  working 
the  past  or  the  future  or  the  conditional  or  the  un- 
conditional when  it  is  engaged  in  some  other  line  of 
business — its  tail  will  give  it  away.  I  found  out  all 
these  things  by  myself,  without  a  teacher. 

I  selected  the  verb  Amare,  to  love.  Not  for  anv 
personal  reason,  for  I  am  indifferent  about  verbs;  I 
care  no  more  for  one  verb  than  for  another,  and  have 
little  or  no  respect  for  any  of  them;  but  in  foreign 
languages  you  always  begin  with  that  one.  Why,  I 
do  not  know.  It  is  merely  habit,  I  suppose;  the 
first  teacher  chose  it,  Adam  was  satisfied,  and  there 
hasn't  been  a  successor  since  with  originality  enough 
to  start  a  fresh  one.  For  they  are  a  pretty  limited  lot, 
you  will  admit  that ?  Originality  is  not  in  their  line; 
they  can't  think  up  anything  new,  anything  to 
freshen  up  the  old  moss-grown  dullness  of  the  lan- 
guage lesson  and  put  life  and  "go"  into  it,  and  charm 
and  grace  and  picturesqueness. 

I  knew  I  must  look  after  those  details  myself; 
therefore  I  thought  them  out  and  wrote  them  down, 
and  sent  for  the  facchino  and  explained  them  to  him, 
and  said  he  must  arrange  a  proper  plant,  and  get  to- 
gether a  good  stock  company  among  the  contadini, 
and  design  the  costumes,  and  distribute  the  parts; 
and  drill  the  troupe,  and  be  ready  in  three  days  to 
begin  on  this  Verb  in  a  shipshape  and  workman-like 
manner.  I  told  him  to  put  each  grand  division  of 
it  under  a  foreman,  and  each  subdivision  under  a 
245 


MARK    TWAIN 

subordinate  of  the  rank  of  sergeant  or  corporal  or 
something  like  that,  and  to  have  a  different  uniform 
for  each  squad,  so  that  I  could  tell  a  Pluperfect  from 
a  Compound  Future  without  looking  at  the  book; 
the  whole  battery  to  be  under  his  own  special  and 
particular  command,  with  the  rank  of  Brigadier,  and 
I  to  pay  the  freight. 

I  then  inquired  into  the  character  and  possibilities 
of  the  selected  verb,  and  was  much  disturbed  to  find 
that  it  was  over  my  size,  it  being  chambered  for 
fifty-seven  rounds — fifty-seven  ways  of  saying  I  love 
without  reloading;  and  yet  none  of  them  likely  to 
convince  a  girl  that  was  laying  for  a  title,  or  a  title 
that  was  laying  for  rocks. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  with  my  inexperience  it 
would  be  foolish  to  go  into  action  with  this  mitrail- 
leuse, so  I  ordered  it  to  the  rear  and  told  the  facchino 
to  provide  something  a  little  more  primitive  to  start 
with,  something  less  elaborate,  some  gentle  old- 
fashioned  flint-lock,  smooth-bore,  double-barreled 
thing,  calculated  to  cripple  at  two  hundred  yards  and 
kill  at  forty — an  arrangement  suitable  for  a  beginner 
who  could  be  satisfied  with  moderate  results  on  the 
offstart  and  did  not  wish  to  take  the  whole  territory 
in  the  first  campaign. 

But  in  vain.  He  was  not  able  to  mend  the  matter, 
all  the  verbs  being  of  the  same  build,  all  Catlings,  all 
of  the  same  caliber  and  delivery,  fifty-seven  to  the 
volley,  and  fatal  at  a  mile  and  a  half.  But  he  said 
the  auxiliary  verb  AVERE,  to  have,  was  a  tidy  thing, 
and  easy  to  handle  in  a  seaway,  and  less  likely  to 
miss  stays  in  going  about  than  some  of  the  others; 
246 


ITALIAN    WITH    GRAMMAR 

so,  upon  his  recommendation  I  chose  that  one,  and 
told  him  to  take  it  along  and  scrape  its  bottom  and 
break  out  its  spinnaker  and  get  it  ready  for  business. 
I  will  explain  that  a  facchino  is  a  general-utility 
domestic.  Mine  was  a  horse-doctor  in  his  better 
days,  and  a  very  good  one. 

At  the  end  of  three  days  the  facchino-doctor- 
brigadier  was  ready.  I  was  also  ready,  with  a  stenog- 
rapher. We  were  in  the  room  called  the  Rope- Walk. 
This  is  a  formidably  long  room,  as  is  indicated  by 
its  facetious  name,  and  is  a  good  place  for  reviews. 
At  9.30  the  F.-D.-B.  took  his  place  near  me  and  gave 
the  word  of  command;  the  drums  began  to  rumble 
and  thunder,  the  head  of  the  forces  appeared  at  an 
upper  door,  and  the  "march-past"  was  on.  Down 
they  filed,  a  blaze  of  variegated  color,  each  squad 
gaudy  in  a  uniform  of  its  own  and  bearing  a  banner 
inscribed  with  its  verbal  rank  and  quality:  first  the 
Present  Tense  in  Mediterranean  blue  and  old  gold, 
then  the  Past  Definite  in  scarlet  and  black,  then  the 
Imperfect  in  green  and  yellow,  then  the  Indicative 
Future  in  the  stars  and  stripes,  then  the  Old  Red 
Sandstone  Subjunctive  in  purple  and  silver — and  so 
on  and  so  on,  fifty-seven  privates  and  twenty  com- 
missioned and  non-commissioned  officers;  certainly 
one  of  the  most  fiery  and  dazzling  and  eloquent  sights 
I  have  ever  beheld.  I  could  not  keep  back  the  tears. 
Presently : 

"Halt!"  commanded  the  Brigadier. 

"Front— face!" 

"Right  dress!" 

247 


MARK    TWAIN 

"Stand  at  ease!" 

"One — two — three.     In  unison — recite!" 

It  was  fine.  In  one  noble  volume  of  sound  all  the 
fifty-seven  Haves  in  the  Italian  language  burst  forth 
in  an  exalting  and  splendid  confusion.  Then  came 
commands : 

"About — face!  Eyes — front!  Helm  alee — hard 
aport!  Forward — march!'"  and  the  drums  let  go 
again. 

When  the  last  Termination  had  disappeared,  the 
commander  said  the  instruction  drill  would  now  be- 
gin, and  asked  for  suggestions.  I  said: 

"They  say  I  have,  thou  hast,  he  has,  and  so  on,  but 
they  don't  say  what.  It  will  be  better,  and  more 
definite,  if  they  have  something  to  have;  just  an 
object,  you  know,  a  something — anything  will  do; 
anything  that  will  give  the  listener  a  sort  of  personal 
as  well  as  grammatical  interest  in  their  joys  and  com- 
plaints, you  see." 

He  said: 

"It  is  a  good  point.     Would  a  dog  do?" 

I  said  I  did  not  know,  but  we  could  try  a  dog  and 
see.  So  he  sent  out  an  aide-de-camp  to  give  the 
order  to  add  the  dog. 

The  six  privates  of  the  Present  Tense  now  filed  in, 
in  charge  of  Sergeant  AVERE  (to  have),  and  displaying 
their  banner.  They  formed  in  line  of  battle,  and  re- 
cited, one  at  a  time,  thus: 

"lo  ho  un  cane,  I  have  a  dog." 

"Tu  hai  un  cane,  thou  hast  a  dog." 

"Egli  ha  un  cane,  he  has  a  dog." 
248 


ITALIAN    WITH    GRAMMAR 

"Noi  dbbiamo  un  cane,  we  have  a  dog." 

"  Voi  avete  un  cane,  you  have  a  dog." 

"Eglino  hanno  un  cane,  they  have  a  dog." 

No  comment  followed.  They  returned  to  camp, 
and  I  reflected  a  while.  The  commander  said : 

"I  fear  you  are  disappointed." 

"Yes,"  I  said;  "they  are  too  monotonous,  too 
singsong,  too  dead-and-alive;  they  have  no  expres- 
sion, no  elocution.  It  isn't  natural;  it  could  never 
happen  in  real  life.  A  person  who  had  just  acquired 
a  dog  is  either  blame'  glad  or  blame'  sorry.  He  is 
not  on  the  fence.  I  never  saw  a  case.  What  the 
nation  do  you  suppose  is  the  matter  with  these 
people?" 

He  thought  maybe  the  trouble  was  with  the  dog. 
He  said: 

"These  are  contadini,  you  know,  and  they  have  a 
prejudice  against  dogs — that  is,  against  marimane. 
Marimana  dogs  stand  guard  over  people's  vines  and 
olives,  you  know,  and  are  very  savage,  and  thereby 
a  grief  and  an  inconvenience  to  persons  who  want 
other  people's  things  at  night.  In  my  judgment  they 
have  taken  this  dog  for  a  marimana,  and  have  soured 
on  him." 

I  saw  that  the  dog  was  a  mistake,  and  not  function- 
able  :  we  must  try  something  else ;  something,  if  pos- 
sible, that  could  evoke  sentiment,  interest,  feeling. 

"What  is  cat,  in  Italian?"  I  asked. 

"Gatto." 

"Is  it  a  gentleman  cat,  or  a  lady?" 

"Gentleman  cat." 

"How  are  these  people  as  regards  that  animal?" 
249 


MARK    TWAIN 

"We-11,  they— they— " 

"You  hesitate:  that  is  enough.  How  are  they 
about  chickens?" 

He  tilted  his  eyes  toward  heaven  in  mute  ecstasy. 
I  understood. 

"What  is  chicken,  in  Italian?"  I  asked. 

"Polio,  podere."  (Podere  is  Italian  for  master. 
It  is  a  title  of  courtesy,  and  conveys  reverence  and 
admiration.)  "Polio  is  one  chicken  by  itself;  when 
there  are  enough  present  to  constitute  a  plural,  it  is 
polli." 

"Very  well,  polli  will  do.  Which  squad  is  detailed 
for  duty  next?" 

"The  Past  Definite." 

"Send  out  and  order  it  to  the  front — with  chickens. 
And  let  them  understand  that  we  don't  want  any 
more  of  this  cold  indifference." 

He  gave  the  order  to  an  aide,  adding,  with  a  haunt- 
ing tenderness  in  his  tone  and  a  watering  mouth  in 
his  aspect: 

"Convey  to  them  the  conception  that  these  are 
unprotected  chickens."  He  turned  to  me,  saluting 
with  his  hand  to  his  temple,  and  explained,  "It  will 
inflame  their  interest  in  the  poultry,  sire." 

A  few  minutes  elapsed.  Then  the  squad  marched 
in  and  formed  up,  their  faces  glowing  with  enthu- 
siasm, and  the  file-leader  shouted: 

"Ebbi  polli,  I  had  chickens!" 

"Good!"  I  said.     "Go  on,  the  next." 

"Avesti  polli,  thou  hadst  chickens!" 

"Fine!    Next!" 

"Ebbe  polli,  he  had  chickens!" 
250 


ITALIAN    WITH    GRAMMAR 

"Moltimoltissimo!    Go  on,  the  next!" 

"Avemmo  polli,  we  had  chickens!" 

"Basta-basta  aspettatto  avanti  —  last  man  — 
charge!" 

"Ebbero  polli,  they  had  chickens!" 

Then  they  formed  in  echelon,  by  columns  of  fours, 
refusing  the  left,  and  retired  in  great  style  on  the 
double-quick.  I  was  enchanted,  and  said: 

"Now,  doctor,  that  is  something  like!  Chickens 
are  the  ticket,  there  is  no  doubt  about  it.  What  is 
the  next  squad?" 

"The  Imperfect." 

"How  does  it  go?" 

"lo  aveva,  I  had,  tu  avevi,  thou  hadst,  egli  aveva, 
he  had,  noi  av — " 

"Wait — we've  just  had  the  hads.  What  are  you 
giving  me?" 

"But  this  is  another  breed." 

"What  do  we  want  of  another  breed?  Isn't  one 
breed  enough  ?  Had  is  HAD,  and  your  tricking  it  out 
in  a  fresh  way  of  spelling  isn't  going  to  make  it  any 
hadder  than  it  was  before;  now  you  know  that  your- 
self." 

"But  there  is  a  distinction — they  are  not  just  the 
same  Hads." 

"How  do  you  make  it  out?" 

"Well,  you  use  that  first  Had  when  you  are  refer- 
ring to  something  that  happened  at  a  named  and  sharp 
and  perfectly  definite  moment;  you  use  the  other 
when  the  thing  happened  at  a  vaguely  defined  time 
and  in  a  more  prolonged  and  indefinitely  continuous 
way." 

251 


MARK    TWAIN 

"Why,  doctor,  it  is  pure  nonsense;  you  know  it 
yourself.  Look  here :  If  I  have  had  a  had,  or  have 
wanted  to  have  had  a  had,  or  was  in  a  position  right 
then  and  there  to  have  had  a  had  that  hadn't  had 
any  chance  to  go  out  hadding  on  account  of  this 
foolish  discrimination  which  lets  one  Had  go  hadding 
in  any  kind  of  indefinite  grammatical  weather  but 
restricts  the  other  one  to  definite  and  datable  meteoric 
convulsions,  and  keeps  it  pining  around  and  watching 
the  barometer  all  the  time,  and  liable  to  get  sick 
through  confinement  and  lack  of  exercise,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  why — why,  the  inhumanity  of  it  is 
enough,  let  alone  the  wanton  superfluity  and  useless- 
ness  of  any  such  a  loafing  consumptive  hospital-bird 
of  a  Had  taking  up  room  and  cumbering  the  place  for 
nothing.  These  finical  refinements  revolt  me;  it  is 
not  right,  it  is  not  honorable;  it  is  constructive 
nepotism  to  keep  in  office  a  Had  that  is  so  delicate 
it  can't  come  out  when  the  wind's  in  the  nor'west — I 
won't  have  this  dude  on  the  pay-roll.  Cancel  his 
exequatur;  and  look  here — " 

"But  you  miss  the  point.  It  is  like  this.  You 
see — " 

"Never  mind  explaining,  I  don't  care  anything 
about  it.  Six  Hads  is  enough  for  me;  anybody  that 
needs  twelve,  let  him  subscribe;  I  don't  want  any 
stock  in  a  Had  Trust.  Knock  out  the  Prolonged  and 
Indefinitely  Continuous;  four-fifths  of  it  is  water, 
anyway." 

"But  I  beg  you,  podere!  It  is  often  quite  indis- 
pensable in  cases  where — 

"Pipe  the  next  squad  to  the  assualt!" 
252 


ITALIAN    WITH    GRAMMAR 

But  it  was  not  to  be;  for  at  that  moment  the  dull 
boom  of  the  noon  gun  floated  up  out  of  far-off 
Florence,  followed  by  the  usual  softened  jangle  of 
church-bells,  Florentine  and  suburban,  that  bursts 
out  in  murmurous  response;  by  labor-union  law  the 
colazione1  must  stop;  stop  promptly,  stop  instantly, 
stop  definitely,  like  the  chosen  and  best  of  the  breed 
of  Hads. 

'Colazione  is  Italian  for  a  collection,  a  meeting,  a  seance,  a 
sitting. — M.  T. 


A  BURLESQUE  BIOGRAPHY 

TWO  or  three  persons  having  at  different  times 
intimated  that  if  I  would  write  an  autobiogra- 
phy they  would  read  it  when  they  got  leisure,  I  yield 
at  last  to  this  frenzied  public  demand  and  herewith 
tender  my  history. 

Ours  is  a  noble  old  house,  and  stretches  a  long 
way  back  into  antiquity.  The  earliest  ancestor  the 
Twains  have  any  record  of  was  a  friend  of  the  family 
by  the  name  of  Higgins.  This  was  in  the  eleventh 
century,  when  our  people  were  living  in  Aberdeen, 
county  of  Cork,  England.  Why  it  is  that  our  long 
line  has  ever  since  borne  the  maternal  name  (except 
when  one  of  them  now  and  then  took  a  playful  refuge 
in  an  alias  to  avert  foolishness) ,  instead  of  Higgins,  is 
a  mystery  which  none  of  us  has  ever  felt  much  desire 
to  stir.  It  is  a  kind  of  vague,  pretty  romance,  and  we 
leave  it  alone.  All  the  old  families  do  that  way. 

Arthour  Twain  was  a  man  of  considerable  note — a 
solicitor  on  the  highway  in  William  Rufus's  time. 
At  about  the  age  of  thirty  he  went  to  one  of  those 
fine  old  English  places  of  resort  called  Newgate,  to 
see  about  something,  and  never  returned  again. 
While  there  he  died  suddenly. 

Augustus  Twain  seems  to  have  made  something  of 
a  stir  about  the  year  1160.  He  was  as  full  of  fun  as 
254 


A    BURLESQUE    BIOGRAPHY 

he  could  be,  and  used  to  take  his  old  saber  and 
sharpen  it  up,  and  get  in  a  convenient  place  on  a  dark 
night,  and  stick  it  through  people  as  they  went  by,  to 
see  them  jump.  He  was  a  born  humorist.  But  he  got 
to  going  too  far  with  it;  and  the  first  time  he  was 
found  stripping  one  of  these  parties,  the  authorities 
removed  one  end  of  him,  and  put  it  up  on  a  nice  high 
place  on  Temple  Bar,  where  it  could  contemplate  the 
people  and  have  a  good  time.  He  never  liked  any 
situation  so  much  or  stuck  to  it  so  long. 

Then  for  the  next  two  hundred  years  the  family 
tree  shows  a  succession  of  soldiers — noble,  high-spirit- 
ed fellows,  who  always 
went  into  battle  sing- 
ing, right  behind  the 
army,  and  always  went 
out  a  -  whooping,  right 
ahead  of  it. 

This  is  a  scathing 
rebuke  to  old  dead 
Froissart's  poor  witti- 
cism that  our  family 
tree  never  had  but  one 
limb  to  it,  and  that 
that  one  stuck  out  at  right  angles,  and  bore  fruit 
winter  and  summer. 

Early  in  the  fifteenth  century  we  have  Beau  Twain, 
called  "the  Scholar."  He  wrote  a  beautiful,  beauti- 
ful hand.  And  he  could  imitate  anybody's  hand  so 
closely  that  it  was  enough  to  make  a  person  laugh  his 
head  off  to  see  it.  He  had  infinite  sport  with  his 
talent.  But  by  and  by  he  took  a  contract  to  break 
255 


MARK    TWAIN 

stone  for  a  road,  and  the  roughness  of  the  work 
spoiled  his  hand.  Still,  he  enjoyed  life  all  the  time 
he  was  in  the  stone  business,  which,  with  inconsider- 
able intervals,  was  some  forty-two  years.  In  fact, 
he  died  in  harness,  During  all  those  long  years  he 
gave  such  satisfaction  that  he  never  was  through  with 
one  contract  a  week  till  the  government  gave  him 
another.  He  was  a  perfect  pet.  And  he  was  always 
a  favorite  with  his  fellow-artists,  and  was  a  conspicu- 
ous member  of  their  benevolent  secret  society,  called 
the  Chain  Gang.  He  always  wore  his  hair  short, 
had  a  preference  for  striped  clothes,  and  died  la- 
mented by  the  government.  He  was  a  sore  loss  to 
his  country.  For  he  was  so  regular. 

Some  years  later  we  have  the  illustrious  John 
Morgan  Twain.  He  came  over  to  this  country  with 
Columbus  in  1492  as  a  passenger.  He  appears  to 
have  been  of  a  crusty,  uncomfortable  disposition. 
He  complained  of  the  food  all  the  way  over,  and  was 
always  threatening  to  go  ashore  unless  there  was  a 
change.  He  wanted  fresh  shad.  Hardly  a  day 
passed  over  his  head  that  he  did  not  go  idling  about 
the  ship  with  his  nose  in  the  air,  sneering  about  the 
commander,  and  saying  he  did  not  believe  Columbus 
knew  where  he  was  going  to  or  had  ever  been  there 
before.  The  memorable  cry  of  "Land  ho!"  thrilled 
every  heart  in  the  ship  but  his.  He  gazed  awhile 
through  a  piece  of  smoked  glass  at  the  penciled  line 
lying  on  the  distant  water,  and  then  said:  "Land  be 
hanged — it's  a  raft!" 

When  this  questionable  passenger  came  on  board 
the  ship,  he  brought  nothing  with  him  but  an  old 
256 


A    BURLESQUE    BIOGRAPHY 

newspaper  containing  a  handkerchief  marked  "B. 
G.,"  one  cotton  sock  marked  "L.  W.  C.,"  one 
woollen  one  marked  "D.  P.,"  and  a  night-shirt 
marked  "O.  M.  R."  And  yet  during  the  voyage  he 
worried  more  about  his  "trunk,"  and  gave  himself 
more  airs  about  it,  than  all  the  rest  of  the  passengers 
put  together.  If  the  ship  was  "down  by  the  head," 
and  would  not  steer,  he  would  go  and  move  his 
"trunk"  farther  aft,  and  then  watch  the  effect.  If 
the  ship  was  "by  the  stern,"  he  would  suggest  to 
Columbus  to  detail  some  men  to  "shift  that  bag- 
gage." In  storms  he  had  to  be  gagged,  because  his 
wailings  about  his  "trunk"  made  it  impossible  for 
the  men  to  hear  the  orders.  The  man  does  not  appear 
to  have  been  openly  charged  with  any  gravely  un- 
becoming thing,  but  it  is  noted  in  the  ship's  log  as  a 
"curious  circumstance"  that  albeit  he  brought  his 
baggage  on  board  the  ship  in  a  newspaper,  he  took 
it  ashore  in  four  trunks,  a  queensware  crate,  and  a 
couple  of  champagne  baskets.  But  when  he  came 
back  insinuating,  in  an  insolent,  swaggering  way, 
that  some  of  his  things  were  missing,  and  was  going 
to  search  the  other  passengers'  baggage,  it  was  too 
much,  and  they  threw  him  overboard.  They  watched 
long  and  wonderingly  for  him  to  come  up,  but  not 
even  a  bubble  rose  on  the  quietly  ebbing  tide.  But 
while  every  one  was  most  absorbed  in  gazing  over  the 
side,  and  the  interest  was  momentarily  increasing,  it 
was  observed  with  consternation  that  the  vessel  was 
adrift  and  the  anchor-cable  hanging  limp  from  the 
bow.  Then  in  the  ship's  dimmed  and  ancient  log 
we  find  this  quaint  note: 

257 


MARK    TWAIN 

"In  time  it  was  discouvered  yt  ye  troblesome  pas- 
senger hadde  gonne  downe  and  got  ye  anchor,  and 
toke  ye  same  and  solde  it  to  ye  dam  sauvages  from 
ye  interior,  saying  yt  he  hadde  founde  it,  ye  sonne 
of  a  ghun!" 

Yet  this  ancestor  had  good  and  noble  instincts, 
and  it  is  with  pride  that  we  call  to  mind  the  fact  that 
he  was  the  first  white  person  who  ever  interested 
himself  in  the  work  of  elevating  and  civilizing  our 
Indians.  He  built  a  commodious  jail  and  put  up  a 
gallows,  and  to  his  dying  day  he  claimed  with  satis- 
faction that  he  had  had  a  more  restraining  and  ele- 
vating influence  on  the  Indians  than  any  other 
reformer  that  ever  labored  among  them.  At  this 
point  the  chronicle  becomes  less  frank  and  chatty, 
and  closes  abruptly  by  saying  that  the  old  voy- 
ager went  to  see  his  gallows  perform  on  the  first 
white  man  ever  hanged  in  America,  and  while 
there  received  injuries  which  terminated  in  his 
death. 

The  great-grandson  of  the  "Reformer"  flourished 
in  sixteen  hundred  and  something,  and  was  known 
in  our  annals  as  "the  old  Admiral,"  though  in  history 
he  had  other  titles.  He  was  long  in  command  of 
fleets  of  swift  vessels,  well  armed  and  manned,  and 
did  great  service  in  hurrying  up  merchantmen.  Ves- 
sels which  he  followed  and  kept  his  eagle  eye  on, 
always  made  good  fair  time  across  the  ocean.  But 
if  a  ship  still  loitered  in  spite  of  all  he  could  do,  his 
indignation  would  grow  till  he  could  contain  himself 
no  longer — and  then  he  would  take  that  ship  home 
where  he  lived  and  keep  it  there  carefully,  expecting 
258 


A    BURLESQUE    BIOGRAPHY 

the  owners  to  come  for  it,  but  they  never  did.  And 
he  would  try  to  get  the  idleness  and  sloth  out  of  the 
sailors  of  that  ship  by  compelling  them  to  take  in- 
vigorating exercise  and  a  bath.  He  called  it  "walk- 
ing a  plank."  All  the  pupils  liked  it.  At  any  rate, 
they  never  found  any  fault  with  it  after  trying  it. 
When  the  owners  were  late  coming  for  their  ships, 
the  Admiral  always  burned  them,  so  that  the  insur- 
ance money  should  not  be  lost.  At  last  this  fine  old 
tar  was  cut  down  in  the  fullness  of  his  years  and 
honors.  And  to  her  dying  day,  his  poor  heart- 
broken widow  believed  that  if  he  had  been  cut  down 
fifteen  minutes  sooner  he  might  have  been  resus- 
citated. 

Charles  Henry  Twain  lived  during  the  latter  part 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  was  a  zealous  and 
distinguished  missionary.  He  converted  sixteen 
thousand  South  Sea  islanders,  and  taught  them  that 
a  dog-tooth  necklace  and  a  pair  of  spectacles  was  not 
enough  clothing  to  come  to  divine  service  in.  His 
poor  flock  loved  him  very,  very  dearly;  and  when  his 
funeral  was  over,  they  got  up  in  a  body  (and  came 
out  of  the  restaurant)  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  and 
saying,  one  to  another,  that  he  was  a  good  tender 
missionary,  and  they  wished  they  had  some  more  of 

him. 

Pah-go- to-wah-wah-pukketekeewis(Mighty-Hunt- 
er-with-a-Hog-Eye-Twain)  adorned  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  aided  General  Braddock  with 
all  his  heart  to  resist  the  oppressor  Washington.  It 
was  this  ancestor  who  fired  seventeen  times  at  our 
Washington  from  behind  a  tree.  So  far  the  beauti- 
259 


MARK    TWAIN 

ful  romantic  narrative  in  the  moral  story-books  is 
correct ;  but  when  that  narrative  goes  on  to  say  that 
at  the  seventeenth  round  the  awe-stricken  savage 
said  solemnly  that  that  man  was  being  reserved  by 
the  Great  Spirit  for  some  mighty  mission,  and  he 
dared  not  lift  his  sacrilegious  rifle  against  him  again, 
the  narrative  seriously  impairs  the  integrity  of  his- 
tory. What  he  did  say  was: 

"It  ain't  no  (hie)  no  use.  'At  man's  so  drunk  he 
can't  stan'  still  long  enough  for  a  man  to  hit  him. 
I  (hie)  I  can't  'ford  to  fool  away  any  more  am'nition 
on  him." 

That  was  why  he  stopped  at  the  seventeenth 
round,  and  it  was  a  good,  plain,  matter-of-fact  rea- 
son, too,  and  one  that  easily  commends  itself  to  us 
by  the  eloquent,  persuasive  flavor  of  probability 
there  is  about  it. 

I  always  enjoyed  the  story-book  narrative,  but  I 
felt  a  marring  misgiving  that  every  Indian  at  Brad- 
dock's  Defeat  who  fired  at  a  soldier  a  couple  of  times 
(two  easily  grows  to  seventeen  in  a  century),  and 
missed  him,  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  the  Great 
Spirit  was  reserving  that  soldier  for  some  grand 
mission;  and  so  I  somehow  feared  that  the  only 
reason  why  Washington's  case  is  remembered  and 
the  others  forgotten  is,  that  in  his  the  prophecy 
came  true,  and  in  that  of  the  others  it  didn't.  There 
are  not  books  enough  on  earth  to  contain  the  rec- 
ord of  the  prophecies  Indians  and  other  unauthorized 
parties  have  made;  but  one  may  carry  in  his  over- 
coat pockets  the  record  of  all  the  prophecies  that  have 
been  fulfilled. 

260 


A    BURLESQUE    BIOGRAPHY 

I  will  remark  here,  in  passing,  that  certain  an- 
cestors of  mine  are  so  thoroughly  well-known  in  his- 
tory by  their  aliases,  that  I  have  not  felt  it  to  be 
worth  while  to  dwell  upon  them,  or  even  mention 
them  in  the  order  of  their  birth.  Among  these  may 
be  mentioned  Richard  Brinsley  Twain,  alias  Guy 
Fawkes;  John  Wentworth  Twain,  alias  Sixteen- 
String  Jack;  William  Hogarth  Twain,  alias  Jack 
Sheppard;  Ananias  Twain,  alias  Baron  Munchausen; 
John  George  Twain,  alias  Captain  Kydd;  and  then 
there  are  George  Francis  Train,  Tom  Pepper,  Nebu- 
chadnezzar, and  Baalam's  Ass — they  all  belong  to 
our  family,  but  to  a  branch  of  it  somewhat  distinct- 
ly removed  from  the  honorable  direct  line — in  fact, 
a  collateral  branch,  whose  members  chifly  differ  from 
the  ancient  stock  in  that,  in  order  to  acquire  the 
notoriety  we  have  always  yearned  and  hungered  for, 
they  have  got  into  a  low  way  of  going  to  jail  instead 
of  getting  hanged. 

It  is  not  well,  when  writing  an  autobiography,  to 
follow  your  ancestry  down  too  close  to  your  own 
time — it  is  safest  to  speak  only  vaguely  of  your 
great-grandfather,  and  then  skip  from  there  to 
yourself,  which  I  now  do. 

I  was  born  without  teeth — and  there  Richard  III. 
had  the  advantage  of  me;  but  I  was  born  without  a 
humpback,  likewise,  and  there  I  had  the  advantage 
of  him.  My  parents  were  neither  very  poor  nor  con- 
spicuously honest. 

But  now  a  thought  occurs  to  me.  My  own  his- 
tory would  really  seem  so  tame  contrasted  with  that 
of  my  ancestors,  that  it  is  simply  wisdom  to  leave  it 
261 


MARK    TWAIN 

unwritten  until  I  am  hanged.  If  some  other  biog- 
raphies I  have  read  had  stopped  with  the  ancestry 
until  a  like  event  occurred,  it  would  have  been  a 
felicitous  thing  for  the  reading  public.  How  does  it 
strike  you? 


HOW  TO  TELL  A  STORY 

The  Humorous  Story  an  American  Development. — Its 
Difference  from  Comic  and  Witty  Stories. 

1DO  not  claim  that  I  can  tell  a  story  as  it  ought 
•'.to  be  told.  I  only  claim  to  know  how  a  story 
ought  to  be  told,  for  I  have  been  almost  daily  in  the 
company  of  the  most  expert  story-tellers  for  many 
years. 

There  are  several  kinds  of  stories,  but  only  one 
difficult  kind — the  humorous.  I  will  talk  mainly 
about  that  one.  The  humorous  story  is  American, 
the  comic  story  is  English,  the  witty  story  is  French. 
The  humorous  story  depends  for  its  effect  upon  the 
manner  of  the  telling;  the  comic  story  and  the  witty 
story  upon  the  matter. 

The  humorous  story  may  be  spun  out  to  great 
length,  and  may  wander  around  as  much  as  it 
pleases,  and  arrive  nowhere  in  particular;  but  the 
comic  and  witty  stories  must  be  brief  and  end  with 
a  point.  The  humorous  story  bubbles  gently  along, 
the  others  burst. 

The  humorous  story  is  strictly  a  work  of  art — 

high  and  delicate  art — and  only  an  artist  can  tell  it; 

but  no  art  is  necessary  in  telling  the  comic  and  the 

witty  story;  anybody  can  do  it.     The  art  of  telling 

263 


MARK    TWAIN 

a  humorous  story — understand,  I  mean  by  word  of 
mouth,  not  print — was  created  in  America,  and  has 
remained  at  home. 

The  humorous  story  is  told  gravely;  the  teller 
does  his  best  to  conceal  the  fact  that  he  even  dimly 
suspects  that  there  is  anything  funny  about  it;  but 
the  teller  of  the  comic  story  tells  you  beforehand 
that  it  is  one  of  the  funniest  things  he  has  ever 
heard,  then  tells  it  with  eager  delight,  and  is  the 
first  person  to  laugh  when  he  gets  through.  And 
sometimes,  if  he  has  had  good  success,  he  is  so  glad 
and  happy  that  he  will  repeat  the  "nub"  of  it  and 
glance  around  from  face  to  face,  collecting  applause, 
and  then  repeat  it  again.  It  is  a  pathetic  thing  to 
see. 

Very  often,  of  course,  the  rambling  and  disjointed 
humorous  story  finishes  with  a  nub,  point,  snapper, 
or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it.  Then  the  listener 
must  be  alert,  for  in  many  cases  the  teller  will  divert 
attention  from  that  nub  by  dropping  it  in  a  carefully 
casual  and  indifferent  way,  with  the  pretense  that  he 
does  not  know  it  is  a  nub. 

Artemus  Ward  used  that  trick  a  good  deal;  then 
when  the  belated  audience  presently  caught  the  joke 
he  would  look  up  with  innocent  surprise,  as  if  won- 
dering what  they  had  found  to  laught  at.  Dan 
Setchell  used  it  before  him,  Nye  and  Riley  and 
others  use  it  to-day. 

But  the  teller  of  the  comic  story  does  not  slur 

the  nub;    he  shouts  it  at  you — every  time.    And 

when  he  prints  it,  in  England,  France,  Germany, 

and   Italy,   he   italicizes   it,    puts   some   whooping 

264 


HOW    TO    TELL    A    STORY 

exclamation-points  after  it,  and  sometimes  explains 
it  in  a  parenthesis.  All  of  which  is  very  depressing, 
and  makes  one  want  to  renounce  joking  and  lead  a 
better  life. 

Let  me  set  down  an  instance  of  the  comic  method, 
using  an  anecdote  which  has  been  popular  all  over 
the  world  for  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  years.  The 
teller  tells  it  in  this  way: 


THE    WOUNDED   SOLDIER 

In  the  course  of  a  certain  battle  a  soldier  whose 
leg  had  been  shot  off  appealed  to  another  soldier 
who  was  hurrying  by  to  carry  him  to  the  rear,  in- 
forming him  at  the  same  time  of  the  loss  which  he 
had    sustained;     whereupon    the   generous    son   of 
Mars,   shouldering   the   unfortunate,   proceeded   to 
carry  out  his  desire.     The  bullets  and  cannon-balls 
were  flying  in  all  directions,  and  presently  one  of 
the  latter  took  the  wounded  man's  head  off — with- 
out, however,  his  deliverer  being  aware  of  it.     In 
no  long  time  he  was  hailed  by  an  officer,  who  said: 
"Where  are  you  going  with  that  carcass?" 
"To  the  rear,  sir — he's  lost  his  leg!" 
"His   leg,   forsooth?"   responded   the   astonished 
officer;    "you  mean  his  head,  you  booby." 

Whereupon  the  soldier  dispossessed  himself  of  his 
burden,  and  stood  looking  down  upon  it  in  great 
perplexity.  At  length  he  said : 

"It  is  true,  sir,  just  as  you  have  said."  Then 
after  a  pause  he  added,  "But  he  TOLD  me  IT  WAS 
HIS  LEG!  !  I  !  I" 

265 


MARK    TWAIN 

Here  the  narrator  bursts  into  explosion  after  ex- 
plosion of  thunderous  horse-laughter,  repeating  that 
nub  from  time  to  time  through  his  gaspings  and 
shriekings  and  suffocatings. 

It  takes  only  a  minute  and  a  half  to  tell  that  in  its 
comic-story  form;  and  isn't  worth  the  telling,  after 
all.  Put  into  the  humorous-story  form  it  takes  ten 
minutes,  and  is  about  the  funniest  thing  I  have  ever 
listened  to — as  James  Whitcomb  Riley  tells  it. 

He  tells  it  in  the  character  of  a  dull-witted  old 
farmer  who  has  just  heard  it  for  the  first  time,  thinks 
it  is  unspeakably  funny,  and  is  trying  to  repeat  it  to 
a  neighbor.  But  he  can't  remember  it;  so  he  gets 
all  mixed  up  and  wanders  helplessly  round  and 
round,  putting  in  tedious  details  that  don't  belong 
in  the  tale  and  only  retard  it ;  taking  them  out  con- 
scientiously and  putting  in  others  that  are  just  as 
useless;  making  minor  mistakes  now  and  then  and 
stopping  to  correct  them  and  explain  how  he  came 
to  make  them;  remembering  things  which  he  forgot 
to  put  in  in  their  proper  place  and  going  back  to  put 
them  in  there;  stopping  his  narrative  a  good  while 
in  order  to  try  to  recall  the  name  of  the  soldier 
that  was  hurt,  and  finally  remembering  that  the 
soldier's  name  was  not  mentioned,  and  remarking 
placidly  that  the  name  is  of  no  real  importance, 
anyway — better,  of  course,  if  one  knew  it,  but  not 
essential,  after  all — and  so  on,  and  so  on,  and  so  on. 

The  teller  is  innocent  and  happy  and  pleased  with 

himself,  and  has  to  stop  every  little  while  to  hold 

himself  in  and  keep  from  laughing  outright;    and 

does  hold  in,  but  his  body  quakes  in  a  jelly-like 

266 


HOW    TO    TELL    A    STORY 

way  with  interior  chuckles;  and  at  the  end  of  the 
ten  minutes  the  audience  have  laughed  until  they 
are  exhausted,  and  the  tears  are  running  down  their 
faces. 

The  simplicity  and  innocence  and  sincerity  and 
unconsciousness  of  the  old  fanner  are  perfectly  sim- 
ulated, and  the  result  is  a  performance  which  is 
thoroughly  charming  and  delicious.  This  is  art — 
and  fine  and  beautiful,  and  only  a  master  can  com- 
pass it ;  but  a  machine  could  tell  the  other  story. 

To  string  incongruities  and  absurdities  together  in 
a  wandering  and  sometimes  purposeless  way,  and 
seem  innocently  unaware  that  they  are  absurdities, 
is  the  basis  of  the  American  art,  if  my  position 
is  correct.  Another  feature  is  the  slurring  of  the 
point.  A  third  is  the  dropping  of  a  studied  remark 
apparently  without  knowing  it,  as  if  one  were  think- 
ing aloud.  The  fourth  and  last  is  the  pause. 

Artemus  Ward  dealt  in  numbers  three  and  four  a 
good  deal.  He  would  begin  to  tell  with  great  ani- 
mation something  which  he  seemed  to  think  was 
wonderful;  then  lose  confidence,  and  after  an  ap- 
parently absent-minded  pause  add  an  incongru- 
ous remark  in  a  soliloquizing  way;  and  that  was  the 
remark  intended  to  explode  the  mine — and  it  did. 

For  instance,  he  would  say  eagerly,  excitedly,  "I 
once  knew  a  man  in  New  Zealand  who  hadn't  a 
tooth  in  his  head" — here  his  animation  would  die 
out;  a  silent,  reflective  pause  would  follow,  then  he 
would  say  dreamily,  and  as  if  to  himself,  "and  yet 
that  man  could  beat  a  drum  better  than  any  man  I 
ever  saw." 

267 


MARK    TWAIN 

The  pause  is  an  exceedingly  important  feature  in 
any  kind  of  story,  and  a  frequently  recurring  feature, 
too.  It  is  a  dainty  thing,  and  delicate,  and  also  un- 
certain and  treacherous;  for  it  must  be  exactly  the 
right  length — no  more  and  no  less — or  it  fails  of 
its  purpose  and  makes  trouble.  If  the  pause  is  too 
short  the  impressive  point  is  passed,  and  the  audi- 
ence have  had  time  to  divine  that  a  surprise  is 
intended — and  then  you  can't  surprise  them,  of 
course. 

On  the  platform  I  used  to  tell  a  negro  ghost  story 
that  had  a  pause  in  front  of  the  snapper  on  the  end, 
and  that  pause  was  the  most  important  thing  in  the 
whole  story.  If  I  got  it  the  right  length  precisely, 
I  could  spring  the  finishing  ejaculation  with  effect 
enough  to  make  some  impressible  girl  deliver  a 
startled  little  yelp  and  jump  out  of  her  seat — and 
that  was  what  I  was  after.  This  story  was  called 
"The  Golden  Arm,"  and  was  told  in  this  fashion. 
You  can  practise  with  it  yourself — and  mind  you 
look  out  for  the  pause  and  get  it  right. 

THE   GOLDEN  ARM 

Once  'pon  a  time  dey  wuz  a  monsus  mean  man, 
en  he  live  'way  out  in  de  prairie  all  'lone  by  hisself , 
'cep'n  he  had  a  wife.  En  bimeby  she  died,  en  he 
tuck  en  toted  her  way  out  dah  in  de  prairie  en 
buried  her.  Well,  she  had  a  golden  arm — all  solid 
gold,  fum  de  shoulder  down.  He  wuz  pow'ful 
mean — pow'ful;  en  dat  night  he  couldn't  sleep, 
caze  he  want  dat  golden  arm  so  bad. 
268 


HOW    TO    TELL    A    STORY 

When  it  come  midnight  he  couldn't  stan'  it  no 
mo';  so  he  git  up,  he  did,  en  tuck  his  lantern  en 
shoved  out  thoo  de  storm  en  dug  her  up  en  got  de 
golden  arm;  en  he  bent  his  head  down  'gin  de  win*, 
en  plowed  en  plowed  en  plowed  thoo  de  snow. 
Den  all  on  a  sudden  he  stop  (make  a  considerable 
pause  here,  and  look  startled,  and  take  a  listening 
attitude)  en  say:  "My  lan\  what's  dat?" 

En  he  listen — en  listen — en  de  win'  say  (set 
your  teeth  together  and  imitate  the  wailing  and 
wheezing  singsong  of  the  wind),  "Bzzz-z-zzz" — 
en  den,  way  back  yonder  whah  de  grave  is,  he  hear 
a  voice! — he  hear  a  voice  all  mix'  up  in  de  win' — 
can't  hardly  tell  'em  'part — "Bzzz — zzz — W-h-o 
— g-o-t — m-y — g-o-l-d-e-n  arm?"  (You  must  begin 
to  shiver  violently  now.) 

En  he  begin  to  shiver  en  shake,  en  say,  "Oh, 
my!  Oh,  my  Ian'!"  en  de  win'  blow  de  lantern 
out,  en  de  snow  en  sleet  blow  in  his  face  en  mos' 
choke  him,  en  he  start  a-plowin'  knee-deep  towards 
home  mos'  dead,  he  so  sk'yerd — en  pooty  soon 
he  hear  de  voice  agin,  en  (pause)  it  'us  comin' 
after  him!  "Bzzz — zzz — zzz — W-h-o — g-o-t — m-y — 
g-o-l-d-e-n — arm? ' ' 

When  he  git  to  de  pasture  he  hear  it  agin— 
closter  now,  en  a.-comin'! — a-comin'  back  dah  in 
de  dark  en  de  storm — (repeat  the  wind  and  the 
voice).  When  he  git  to  de  house  he  rush  up-stairs 
en  jump  in  de  bed  en  kiver  up,  head  and  years,  en 
lay  dah  shiverin'  en  shakin'— en  den  way  out  dah 
he  hear  it  agin! — en  &-comin'!  En  bimeby  he 
hear  (pause — awed,  listening  attitude) — pat — pat 
269 


MARK    TWAIN 

— pat — kit's  a-comin'  up-stairs!  Den  he  hear  de 
latch,  en  he  know  it's  in  de  room! 

Den  pooty  soon  he  know  it's  a-stannin'  by  de 
led!  (Pause.)  Den — he  know  it's  a-bendin'  down 
over  him — en  he  cain't  skasely  git  his  breath !  Den — 
den — he  seem  to  feel  someth'n'_c-0-/-d,  right  down 
'most  agin  his  head!  (Pause.) 

Den  de  voice  say,  right  at  his  year — "W-h-o — 
g-o-t  —  m-y  —  g-o-l-d-e-n  arm?"  (You  must  wail 
it  out  very  plaintively  and  accusingly;  then  you 
stare  steadily  and  impressively  into  the  face  of  the 
farthest-gone  auditor — a  girl,  preferably — and  let 
that  awe-inspiring  pause  begin  to  build  itself  in  the 
deep  hush.  When  it  has  reached  exactly  the  right 
length,  jump  suddenly  at  that  girl  and  yell,  "You've 
got  it!" 

If  you've  got  the  pause  right,  she'll  fetch  a  dear 
little  yelp  and  spring  right  out  of  her  shoes.  But 
you  must  get  the  pause  right;  and  you  will  find  it 
the  most  troublesome  and  aggravating  and  uncertain 
thing  you  ever  undertook. 


GENERAL  WASHINGTON'S 
NEGRO  BODY-SERVANT 

A   BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

THE  stirring  part  of  this  celebrated  colored  man's 
life  properly  began  with  his  death — that  is  to 
say,  the  notable  features  of  his  biography  begin  with 
the  first  time  he  died.  He  had  been  little  heard  of 
up  to  that  time,  but  since  then  we  have  never  ceased 
to  hear  of  him ;  we  have  never  ceased  to  hear  of  him 
at  stated,  unfailing  intervals.  His  was  a  most  re- 
markable career,  and  I  have  thought  that  its  history 
would  make  a  valuable  addition  to  our  biographical 
literature.  Therefore,  I  have  carefully  collated  the 
materials  for  such  a  work,  from  authentic  sources, 
and  here  present  them  to  the  public.  I  have  rigidly 
excluded  from  these  pages  everything  of  a  doubtful 
character,  with  the  object  in  view  of  introducing  my 
work  into  the  schools  for  the  instruction  of  the  youth 
of  my  country. 

The  name  of  the  famous  body-servant  of  General 
Washington  was  George.  After  serving  his  illustrious 
master  faithfully  for  half  a  century,  and  enjoying 
throughout  this  long  term  his  high  regard  and  confi- 
dence, it  became  his  sorrowful  duty  at  last  to  lay  that 
beloved  master  to  rest  in  his  peaceful  grave  by  the 
Potomac.  Ten  years  afterward — in  1809 — full  of 
271 


MARK     TWAIN 

years  and  honors,  he  died  himself,  mourned  by  all 
who  knew  him.  The  Boston  Gazette  of  that  date  thus 
refers  to  the  event  : 

George,  the  favorite  body-servant  of  the  lamented  Washing- 
ton, died  in  Richmond,  Va.,  last  Tuesday,  at  the  ripe  age  of 
95  years.  His  intellect  was  unimpaired,  and  his  memory  tena- 
cious, up  to  within  a  few  minutes  of  his  decease.  He  was 
present  at  the  second  installation  of  Washington  as  President, 
and  also  at  his  funeral,  and  distinctly  remembered  all  the 
prominent  incidents  connected  with  those  noted  events. 

From  this  period  we  hear  no  more  of  the  favorite 
body-servant  of  General  Washington  until  May, 
1825,  at  which  time  he  died  again.  A  Philadelphia 
paper  thus  speaks  of  the  sad  occurrence : 

At  Macon,  Ga.,  last  week,  a  colored  man  named  George,  who 
was  the  favorite  body-servant  of  General  Washington,  died  at 
the  advanced  age  of  95  years.  Up  to  within  a  few  hours  of  his 
dissolution  he  was  in  full  possession  of  all  his  faculties,  and 
could  distinctly  recollect  the  second  installation  of  Washington, 
his  death  and  burial,  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis,  the  battle  of 
Trenton,  the  griefs  and  hardships  of  Valley  Forge,  etc.  De- 
ceased was  followed  to  the  grave  by  the  entire  population  of 
Macon. 

On  the  Fourth  of  July,  1830,  and  also  of  1834  and 
1836,  the  subject  of  this  sketch  was  exhibited  in  great 
state  upon  the  rostrum  of  the  orator  of  the  day,  and 
in  November  of  1840  he  died  again.  The  St.  Louis 
Republican  of  the  25th  of  that  month  spoke  as  follows: 


"ANOTHER  RELIC  OF  THE  REVOLUTION  GONE. 

"George,  once  the  favorite  body-servant  of  General  Washing- 
ton, died  yesterday  at  the  house  of  Mr.  John  Leavenworth 
272 


WASHINGTON'S    BODY-SERVANT 

in  this  city,  at  the  venerable  age  of  95  years.  He  was  in  the  full 
possession  of  his  faculties  up  to  the  hour  of  his  death,  and 
distinctly  recollected  the  first  and  second  installations  and 
death  of  President  Washington,  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis,  the 
battles  of  Trenton  and  Monmouth,  the  sufferings  of  the  patriot 
army  at  Valley  Forge,  the  proclamation  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence,  the  speech  of  Patrick  Henry  in  the  Virginia 
House  of  Delegates,  and  many  other  old-time  reminiscenses  of 
stirring  interest.  Few  white  men  die  lamented  as  was  this  aged 
negro.  The  funeral  was  very  largely  attended. 

During  the  next  ten  or  eleven  years  the  subject  of 
this  sketch  appeared  at  intervals  at  Fourth-of-July 
celebrations  in  various  parts  of  the  country,  and  was 
exhibited  upon  the  rostrum  with  flattering  success. 
But  in  the  fall  of  1855  he  died  again.  The  California 
papers  thus  speak  of  the  event : 

ANOTHER  OLD  HERO  GONE 

Died,  at  Dutch  Flat,  on  the  ;th  of  March,  George  (once  the 
confidential  body-servant  of  General  Washington),  at  the  great 
age  of  95  years.  His  memory,  which  did  not  fail  him  till  the 
last,  was  a  wonderful  storehouse  of  interesting  reminiscences. 
He  could  distinctly  recollect  the  first  and  second  installations 
and  death  of  President  Washington,  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis, 
the  battles  of  Trenton  and  Monmouth,  and  Bunker  Hill,  the 
proclamation  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  and  Brad- 
dock's  defeat.  George  was  greatly  respected  in  Dutch  Flat, 
and  it  is  estimated  that  there  were  10,000  people  present  at  his 
funeral. 

The  last  time  the  subject  of  this  sketch  died  was 
in  June,  1864;  and  until  we  learn  the  contrary,  it  is 
just  to  presume  that  he  died  permanently  this  time. 
The  Michigan  papers  thus  refer  to  the  sorrowful 
event: 

273 


MARK    TWAIN 

ANOTHER  CHERISHED   REMNANT  OF  THE 
REVOLUTION  GONE 

George,  a  colored  man,  and  once  the  favorite  body-servant 
of  General  Washington,  died  in  Detroit  last  week,  at  the  pa- 
triarchal age  of  95  years.  To  the  moment  of  his  death  his 
intellect  was  unclouded,  and  he  could  distinctly  remember 
the  first  and  second  installations  and  death  of  Washington, 
the  surrender  of  Cornwallis,  the  battles  of  Trenton  and  Mon- 
mouth,  and  Bunker  Hill,  the  proclamation  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence,  Braddock's  defeat,  the  throwing  over  of  the  tea 
in  Boston  harbor,  and  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims.  He  died 
greatly  respected,  and  was  followed  to  the  grave  by  a  vast 
concourse  of  people. 

The  faithful  old  servant  is  gone!  We  shall  never 
see  him  more  until  he  turns  up  again.  He  has  closed 
his  long  and  splendid  career  of  dissolution,  for  the 
present,  and  sleeps  peacefully,  as  only  they  sleep  who 
have  earned  their  rest.  He  was  in  all  respects  a 
remarkable  man.  He  held  his  age  better  than  any 
celebrity  that  has  figured  in  history;  and  the  longer 
he  lived  the  stronger  and  longer  his  memory  grew. 
If  he  lives  to  die  again,  he  will  distinctly  recollect  the 
discovery  of  America. 

The  above  r6sume  of  his  biography  I  believe  to  be 
substantially  correct,  althought  it  is  possible  that  he 
may  have  died  once  or  twice  in  obscure  places  where 
the  event  failed  of  newspaper  notoriety.  One  fault  I 
find  in  all  notices  of  his  death  which  I  have  quoted, 
and  this  ought  to  be  correct.  In  them  he  uniformly 
and  impartially  died  at  the  age  of  95.  This  could  not 
have  been.  He  might  have  done  that  once,  or  maybe 
twice,  but  he  could  not  have  continued  it  indefinitely. 
Allowing  that  when  he  first  died,  he  died  at  the  age 
274 


WASHINGTON'S    BODY-SERVANT 

of  95,  he  was  151  years  old  when  he  died  last,  in  1864. 
But  his  age  did  not  keep  pace  with  his  recollections. 
When  he  died  the  last  time,  he  distinctly  remembered 
the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  which  took  place  in  1620. 
He  must  have  been  about  twenty  years  old  when  he 
witnessed  that  event,  wherefore  it  is  safe  to  assert 
that  the  body-servant  of  General  Washington  was  in 
the  neighborhood  of  two  hundred  and  sixty  or  seventy 
years  old  when  he  departed  this  lif e  finally. 

Having  waited  a  proper  length  of  time,  to  see  if  the 
subject  of  this  sketch  had  gone  from  us  reliably  and 
irrevocably,  I  now  publish  his  biography  with  con- 
fidence, and  respectfully  offer  it  to  a  mourning 
nation. 

P.  S. — I  see  by  the  papers  that  this  infamous  old 
fraud  has  just  died  again,  in  Arkansas.  This  makes 
six  times  that  he  is  known  to  have  died,  and  always 
in  a  new  place.  The  death  of  Washington's  body- 
servant  has  ceased  to  be  a  novelty;  its  charm  is  gone ; 
the  people  are  tired  of  it;  let  it  cease.  This  well- 
meaning  but  misguided  negro  has  now  put  six  differ- 
ent communities  to  the  expense  of  burying  him  in 
state,  and  has  swindled  tens  of  thousands  of  people 
into  following  him  to  the  grave  under  the  delusion 
that  a  select  and  peculiar  distinction  was  being  con- 
ferred upon  them.  Let  him  stay  buried  for  good 
now;  and  let  that  newspaper  suffer  the  severest 
censure  that  shall  ever,  in  all  future  time,  publish  to 
the  world  that  General  Washington's  favorite  colored 
body-servant  has  died  again. 


275 


WIT   INSPIRATIONS   OF  THE 
"TWO-YEAR-OLDS" 

A  LL  infants  appear  to  have  an  impertinent  and 
2\  disagreeable  fashion  nowadays  of  saying 
"smart"  things  on  most  occasions  that  offer,  and  es- 
pecially on  occasions  when  they  ought  not  to  be 
saying  anything  at  all.  Judging  by  the  average  pub- 
lished specimens  of  smart  sayings,  the  rising  genera- 
tion of  children  are  little  better  than  idiots.  And  the 
parents  must  surely  be  but  little  better  than  the 
children,  for  in  most  cases  they  are  the  publishers  of 
the  sunbursts  of  infantile  imbecility  which  dazzle  us 
from  the  pages  of  our  periodicals.  I  may  seem  to 
speak  with  some  heat,  not  to  say  a  suspicion  of  per- 
sonal spite;  and  I  do  admit  that  it  nettles  me  to  hear 
about  so  many  gifted  infants  in  these  days,  and  re- 
member that  I  seldom  said  anything  smart  when  I 
was  a  child.  I  tried  it  once  or  twice,  but  it  was  not 
popular.  The  family  were  not  expecting  brilliant 
remarks  from  me,  and  so  they  snubbed  me  sometimes 
and  spanked  me  the  rest.  But  it  makes  my  flesh 
creep  and  my  blood  run  cold  to  think  what  might 
have  happened  to  me  if  I  had  dared  to  utter  some  of 
the  smart  things  of  this  generation's  "four-year- 
olds"  where  my  father  could  hear  me.  To  have 
simply  skinned  me  alive  and  considered  his  duty  at 
276 


"THE    TWO-YEAR-OLDS" 

an  end  would  have  seemed  to  him  criminal  leniency 
toward  one  so  sinning.  He  was  a  stem,  unsmiling 
man,  and  hated  all  forms  of  precocity.  If  I  had  said 
some  of  the  things  I  have  referred  to,  and  said  them 
in  his  hearing,  he  would  have  destroyed  me.  He 
would,  indeed.  He  would,  provided  the  opportunity 
remained  with  him.  But  it  would  not,  for  I  would 
have  had  judgment  enough  to  take  some  strychnine 
first  and  say  my  smart  thing  afterward.  The  fair 
record  of  my  life  has  been  tarnished  by  just  one  pun. 
My  father  overheard  that,  and  he  hunted  me  over 
four  or  five  townships  seeking  to  take  my  life.  If  I 
had  been  full-grown,  of  course  he  would  have  been 
right;  but,  child  as  I  was,  I  could  not  know  how 
wicked  a  thing  I  had  done. 

I  made  one  of  those  remarks  ordinarily  called 
"smart  things"  before  that,  but  it  was  not  a  pun. 
Still,  it  came  near  causing  a  serious  rupture  between 
my  father  and  myself.  My  father  and  mother,  my 
uncle  Ephraim  and  his  wife,  and  one  or  two  others 
were  present,  and  the  conversation  turned  on  a  name 
for  me.  I  was  lying  there  trying  some  India-rubber 
rings  of  various  patterns,  and  endeavoring  to  make  a 
selection,  for  I  was  tired  of  trying  to  cut  my  teeth 
on  people's  fingers,  and  wanted  to  get  hold  of  some- 
thing that  would  enable  me  to  hurry  the  thing 
through  and  get  something  else.  Did  you  ever  notice 
what  a  nuisance  it  was  cutting  your  teeth  on  your 
nurse's  finger,  or  how  back-breaking  and  tiresome  it 
was  trying  to  cut  them  on  your  big  toe  ?  And  did 
you  never  get  out  of  patience  and  wish  your  teeth 
were  in  Jericho  long  before  you  got  them  half  cut? 
377 


MARK    TWAIN 

To  me  it  seems  as  if  these  things  happened  yesterday. 
And  they  did,  to  some  children.  But  I  digress.  I 
was  lying  there  trying  the  India-rubber  rings.  I 
remember  looking  at  the  clock  and  noticing  that  in 
an  hour  and  twenty-five  minutes  I  would  be  two 
weeks  old,  and  thinking  how  little  I  had  done  to 
merit  the  blessings  that  were  so  unsparingly  lavished 
upon  me.  My  father  said: 

"Abraham  is  a  good  name.  My  grandfather  was 
named  Abraham." 

My  mother  said : 

"Abraham  is  a  good  name.  Very  well.  Let  us 
have  Abraham  for  one  of  his  names." 

I  said: 

"Abraham  suits  the  subscriber." 

My  father  frowned,  my  mother  looked  pleased; 
my  aunt  said : 

"What  a  little  darling  it  is!" 

My  father  said : 

"Isaac  is  a  good  name,  and  Jacob  is  a  good 
name." 

My  mother  assented,  and  said : 

"No  names  are  better.  Let  us  add  Isaac  and 
Jacob  to  his  names." 

I  said: 

"All  right.  Isaac  and  Jacob  are  good  enough  for 
yours  truly.  Pass  me  that  rattle,  if  you  please.  I 
can't  chew  India-rubber  rings  all  day." 

Not  a  soul  made  a  memorandum  of  these  sayings 

of  mine,  for  publication.     I  saw  that,  and  did  it 

myself,  else  they  would  have  been  utterly  lost.    So 

far  from  meeting  with  a  generous  encouragement  like 

278 


"THE    TWO-YEAR-OLDS'1 

other  children  when  developing  intellectually,  I  was 
now  furiously  scowled  upon  by  my  father;  my 
mother  looked  grieved  and  anxious,  and  even  my 
aunt  had  about  her  an  expression  of  seeming  to  think 
that  maybe  I  had  gone  too  far.  I  took  a  vicious  bite 
out  of  an  India-rubber  ring,  and  covertly  broke  the 
rattle  over  the  kitten's  head,  but  said  nothing. 
Presently  my  father  said: 

"Samuel  is  a  very  excellent  name." 

I  saw  that  trouble  was  coming.  Nothing  could 
prevent  it.  I  laid  down  my  rattle;  over  the  side  of 
the  cradle  I  dropped  my  uncle's  silver  watch,  the 
clothes-brush,  the  toy  dog,  my  tin  soldier,  the  nut- 
meg-grater, and  other  matters  which  I  was  accus- 
tomed to  examine,  and  meditate  upon  and  make 
pleasant  noises  with,  and  bang  and  batter  and  break 
when  I  needed  wholesome  entertainment.  Then  I 
put  on  my  little  frock  and  my  little  bonnet,  and  took 
my  pygmy  shoes  in  one  hand  and  my  licorice  in  the 
other,  and  climbed  out  on  the  floor.  I  said  to  myself, 
Now,  if  the  worst  comes  to  worst,  I  am  ready.  Then 
I  said  aloud,  in  a  firm  voice: 

"Father,  I  cannot,  cannot  wear  the  name  of 
Samuel." 

"My  son!" 

"Father,  I  mean  it.    I  cannot." 

"Why?" 

"Father,  I  have  an  invincible  antipathy  to  that 
name." 

"My  son,  this  is  unreasonable.  Many  great  and 
good  men  have  been  named  Samuel." 

"Sir,  I  have  yet  to  hear  of  the  first  instance." 
279 


MARK     TWAIN 

"What!  There  was  Samuel  the  prophet.  Was 
not  he  great  and  good?" 

"No  so  very." 

"My  son!  With  His  own  voice  the  Lord  called 
him." 

"Yes,  sir,  and  had  to  call  him  a  couple  of  times 
before  he  would  come!" 

And  then  I  sallied  forth,  and  that  stern  old  man 
sallied  forth  after  me.  He  overtook  me  at  noon  the 
following  day,  and  when  the  interview  was  over  I 
had  acquired  the  name  of  Samuel,  and  a  thrashing, 
and  other  useful  information;  and  by  means  of  this 
compromise  my  father's  wrath  was  appeased  and  a 
misunderstanding  bridged  over  which  might  have 
become  a  permanent  rupture  if  I  had  chosen  to  be 
unreasonable.  But  just  judging  by  this  episode, 
what  would  my  father  have  done  to  me  if  I  had  ever 
uttered  in  his  hearing  one  of  the  flat,  sickly  things 
these  "two-year-olds"  say  in  print  nowadays?  In 
my  opinion  there  would  have  been  a  case  of  infanti- 
cide in  our  family. 


AN    ENTERTAINING    ARTICLE 


i 


TAKE  the  following  paragraph  from  an  article  in 
the  Boston  Advertiser: 

AN  ENGLISH  CRITIC  ON  MARK  TWAIN 


Perhaps  the  most  successful  flights  of  the  humor  of  Mark 
Twain  have  been  descriptions  of  the  persons  who  did  not  ap- 
preciate his  humor  at  all.  We  have  become  familiar  with  the 
Californians  who  were  thrilled  with  terror  by  his  burlesque 
of  a  newspaper  reporter's  way  of  telling  a  story,  and  we  have 
heard  of  the  Pennsylvania  clergyman  who  sadly  returned  his 
Innocents  Abroad  to  the  book-agent  with  the  remark  that  "the 
man  who  could  shed  tears  over  the  tomb  of  Adam  must  be  an 
idiot."  But  Mark  Twain  may  now  add  a  much  more  glorious 
instance  to  his  string  of  trophies.  The  Saturday  Review,  in  its 
number  of  October  8th,  reviews  his  book  of  travels,  which  has 
been  republished  in  England,  and  reviews  it  seriously.  We 
can  imagine  the  delight  of  the  humorist  in  reading  this  tribute 
to  his  power;  and  indeed  it  is  so  amusing  in  itself  that  he  can 
hardly  do  better  than  reproduce  the  article  in  full  in  his  next 
monthly  Memoranda, 

(Publishing  the  above  paragraph  thus,  gives  me  a 
sort  of  authority  for  reproducing  the  Saturday  Re- 
view's article  in  full  in  these  pages.  I  dearly  wanted 
to  do  it,  for  I  cannot  write  anything  half  so  delicious 
myself.  If  I  had  a  cast-iron  dog  that  could  read  this 
English  criticism  and  preserve  his  austerity,  I  would 
drive  him  off  the  door-step.) 
281 


MARK    TWAIN 

(From  the  London  "Saturday  Review.") 
REVIEWS  OF  NEW  BOOKS 

THE  INNOCENTS  ABROAD.    A  Book  of  Travels.    By  Mark 
Twain.     London:    Hotten,  publisher.     1870. 

Lord  Macaulay  died  too  soon.  We  never  felt  this  so  deeply 
as  when  we  finished  the  last  chapter  of  the  above-named  ex- 
travagant work.  Macaulay  died  too  soon — for  none  but  he 
could  mete  out  complete  and  comprehensive  justice  to  the 
insolence,  the  impertinence,  the  presumption,  the  mendacity, 
and,  above  all,  the  majestic  ignorance  of  this  author. 

To  say  that  the  Innocents  Abroad  is  a  curious  book,  would 
be  to  use  the  faintest  language — would  be  to  speak  of  the 
Matterhorn  as  a  neat  elevation  or  of  Niagara  as  being  "nice" 
or  "pretty."  "Curious"  is  too  tame  a  word  wherewith  to 
describe  the  imposing  insanity  of  this  work.  There  is  no  word 
that  is  large  enough  or  long  enough.  Let  us,  therefore,  photo- 
graph a  passing  glimpse  of  book  and  author,  and  trust  the  rest 
to  the  reader.  Let  the  cultivated  English  student  of  human 
nature  picture  to  himself  this  Mark  Twain  as  a  person  capable 
of  doing  the  following-described  things — and  not  only  doing 
them,  but  with  incredible  innocence  printing  them  calmly  and 
tranquilly  in  a  book.  For  instance: 

He  states  that  he  entered  a  hair-dresser's  in  Paris  to  get 
shaved,  and  the  first  "rake"  the  barber  gave  with  his  razor 
it  loosened  his  "hide"  and  lifted  him  out  of  the  chair. 

This  is  unquestionably  exaggerated.  In  Florence  he  was  so 
annoyed  by  beggars  that  he  pretends  to  have  seized  and  eaten 
one  in  a  frantic  spirit  of  revenge.  There  is,  of  course,  no  truth 
in  this.  He  gives  at  full  length  a  theatrical  program  seven- 
teen or  eighteen  hundred  years  old,  which  he  professes  to  have 
found  in  the  ruins  of  the  Coliseum,  among  the  dirt  and  mold 
and  rubbish.  It  is  a  sufficient  comment  upon  this  statement 
to  remark  that  even  a  cast-iron  program  would  not  have 
lasted  so  long  under  such  circumstances.  In  Greece  he  plainly 
betrays  both  fright  and  flight  upon  one  occasion,  but  with 
frozen  effrontery  puts  the  latter  in  this  falsely  tamed  form: 
''We  sidled  toward  the  Piraeus."  "Sidled,"  indeed!  He  does 
not  hesitate  to  intimate  that  at  Ephesus,  when  his  mule  strayed 
282 


AN    ENTERTAINING    ARTICLE 

from  the  proper  course,  he  got  down,  took  him  under  his  arm, 
carried  him  to  the  road  again,  pointed  him  right,  remounted,  and 
went  to  sleep  contentedly  till  it  was  time  to  restore  the  beast 
to  the  path  once  more.  He  states  that  a  growing  youth  among 
his  ship's  passengers  was  in  the  constant  habit  of  appeasing  his 
hunger  with  soap  and  oakum  between  meals.  In  Palestine  he 
tells  of  ants  that  came  eleven  miles  to  spend  the  summer  in  the 
desert  and  brought  their  provisions  with  them;  yet  he  shows 
by  his  description  of  the  country  that  the  feat  was  an  impossi- 
bility. He  mentions,  as  if  it  were  the  most  commonplace  of 
matters,  that  he  cut  a  Moslem  in  two  in  broad  daylight  in 
Jerusalem,  with  Godfrey  de  Bouillon's  sword,  and  would  have 
shed  more  blood  if  he  had  had  a  graveyard  of  his  awn.  These 
statements  are  unworthy  a  moment's  attention.  Mr.  Twain 
or  any  other  foreigner  who  did  such  a  thing  in  Jerusalem  would 
be  mobbed,  and  would  infallibly  lose  his  life.  But  why  go  on? 
Why  repeat  more  of  his  audacious  and  exasperating  faslehoods? 
Let  us  dose  fittingly  with  this  one:  he  affirms  that  "in  the 
mosque  of  St.  Sophia  at  Constantinople  I  got  my  feet  so  stuck 
up  with  a  complication  of  gums,  slime,  and  general  impurity, 
that  I  wore  out  more  than  two  thousand  pair  of  bootjacks 
getting  my  boots  off  that  night,  and  even  then  some  Christian 
hide  peeled  off  with  them."  It  is  monstrous.  Such  statements 
are  simply  lies — there  is  no  other  name  for  them.  Will  the 
reader  longer  marvel  at  the  brutal  ignorance  that  pervades  the 
American  nation  when  we  tell  him  that  we  are  informed  upon 
perfectly  good  authority  that  this  extravagant  compilation  of 
falsehoods,  this  exhaustless  mine  of  stupendous  lies,  this  Inno- 
cents Abroad,  has  actually  been  adopted  by  the  schools  and 
colleges  of  several  of  the  states  as  a  text-book! 

But  if  his  falsehoods  are  distressing,  his  innocence  and  his 
ignorance  are  enough  to  make  one  burn  the  book  and  despise 
the  author.  In  one  place  he  was  so  appalled  at  the  sudden 
spectacle  of  a  murdered  man,  unveiled  by  the  moonlight,  that 
he  jumped  out  of  the  window,  going  through  sash  and  all,  and 
then  remarks  with  the  most  childlike  simplicity  that  he  "was  not 
scared,  but  was  considerably  agitated."  It  puts  us  out  of 
patience  to  note  that  the  simpleton  is  densely  unconscious  that 
Lucrezia  Borgia  ever  existed  off  the  stage.  He  is  vulgarly 
ignorant  of  all  foreign  languages,  but  is  frank  enough  to  criticize, 
283 


MARK     TWAIN 

the  Italians'  use  of  their  own  tongue.  He  says  they  spell  the 
name  of  their  great  painter  "Vinci,  but  pronounce  it  Vinchy" — 
and  then  adds  with  a  naivete"  possible  only  to  helpless  ignorance, 
"foreigners  always  spell  better  than  they  pronounce."  In 
another  place  he  commits  the  bald  absurdity  of  putting  the 
phrase  "tare  an  ouns"  into  an  Italian's  mouth.  In  Rome  he 
unhesitatingly  believes  the  legend  that  St.  Philip  Neri's  heart 
was  so  inflamed  with  divine  love  that  it  burst  his  ribs — be- 
lieves it  wholly  because  an  author  with  a  learned  list  of 
university  degrees  strung  after  his  name  indorses  it — "other- 
wise," says  this  gentle  idiot,  "I  should  have  felt  a  curiosity  to 
know  what  Philip  had  for  dinner."  Our  author  makes  a  long, 
fatiguing  journey  to  the  Grotto  del  Cane  on  purpose  to  test  its 
poisoning  powers  on  a  dog — got  elaborately  ready  for  the 
experiment,  and  then  discovered  that  he  had  no  dog.  A  wiser 
person  would  have  kept  such  a  thing  discreetly  to  himself,  but 
with  this  harmless  creature  everything  comes  out.  He  hurts  his 
foot  in  a  rut  two  thousand  years  old  in  exhumed  Pompeii,  and 
presently,  when  staring  at  one  of  the  cinder-like  corpses  un- 
earthed in  the  next  square,  conceives  the  idea  that  maybe  it  is 
the  remains  of  the  ancient  Street  Commissioner,  and  straightway 
his  horror  softens  down  to  a  sort  of  chirpy  contentment  with  the 
condition  of  things.  In  Damascus  he  visits  the  well  of  Ananias, 
three  thousand  years  old,  and  is  as  surprised  and  delighted  as  a 
child  to  find  that  the  water  is  "as  pure  and  fresh  as  if  the  well 
had  been  dug  yesterday."  In  the  Holy  Land  he  gags  desperately 
at  the  hard  Arabic  and  Hebrew  Biblical  names,  and  finally  con- 
cludes to  call  them  Baldwinsville,  Williamsburgh,  and  so  on, 
"for  convenience  of  spelling." 

We  have  thus  spoken  freely  of  this  man's  stupefying  sim- 
plicity and  innocence,  but  we  cannot  deal  similarly  with  his 
colossal  ignorance.  We  do  not  know  where  to  begin.  And  if 
we  knew  where  to  begin,  we  certainly  would  not  know  where  to 
leave  off.  We  will  give  one  specimen,  and  one  only.  He  did 
not  know,  until  he  got  to  Rome,  that  Michael  Angelo  was  dead! 
And  then,  instead  of  crawling  away  and  hiding  his  shameful 
ignorance  somewhere,  he  proceeds  to  express  a  pious,  grateful 
sort  of  satisfaction  that  he  is  gone  and  out  of  his  troubles! 

No,  the  reader  may  seek  out  the  author's  exhibition  of  his 
uncultivation  for  himself.  The  book  is  absolutely  dangerous, 
284 


AN    ENTERTAINING    ARTICLE 

considering  the  magnitude  and  variety  of  its  misstatements,  and 
the  convincing  confidence  with  which  they  are  made.  And 
yet  it  is  a  text-book  in  the  schools  of  America. 

The  poor  blunderer  mouses  among  the  sublime  creations  of 
the  Old  Masters,  trying  to  acquire  the  elegant  proficiency  in  art- 
knowledge,  which  he  has  a  groping  sort  of  comprehension  is  a 
proper  thing  for  the  traveled  man  to  be  able  to  display.  But 
what  is  the  manner  of  his  study?  And  what  is  the  progress  he 
achieves?  To  what  extent  does  he  familiarize  himself  with  the 
great  pictures  of  Italy,  and  what  degree  of  appreciation  does  he 
arrive  at?  Read: 

"When  we  see  a  monk  going  about  with  a  lion  and  looking 
up  into  heaven,  we  know  that  that  is  St.  Mark.  When  we  see  a 
monk  with  a  book  and  a  pen,  looking  tranquailly  up  to  heaven, 
trying  to  think  of  a  word,  we  know  that  that  is  St.  Matthew. 
When  we  see  a  monk  sitting  on  a  rock,  looking  tranquilly  up  to 
heaven,  with  a  human  skull  beside  him,  and  without  other  bag- 
gage, we  know  that  that  is  St.  Jerome.  Because  we  know  that 
he  always  went  flying  light  in  the  matter  of  baggage.  When 
we  see  other  monks  looking  tranquilly  up  to  heaven,  but  having 
no  trade-mark,  we  always  ask  who  those  parties  are.  We  do 
this  because  we  humbly  wish  to  learn." 

He  then  enumerates  the  thousands  and  thousands  of  copies 
of  these  several  pictures  which  he  has  seen,  and  adds  with 
accustomed  simplicity  that  he  feels  encouraged  to  believe  that 
when  he  has  seen  "Some  More"  of  each,  and  had  a  larger 
experience,  he  will  eventually  "begin  to  take  an  absorbing  in- 
terest in  them"— the  vulgar  boor. 

That  we  have  shown  this  to  be  a  remarkable  book,  we  think  no 
one  will  deny.  That  it  is  a  pernicious  book  to  place  in  the 
hands  of  the  confiding  and  uninformed,  we  think  we  have  also 
shown.  That  the  book  is  a  deliberate  and  wicked  creation  of 
a  diseased  mind,  is  apparent  upon  every  page.  Having  placed 
our  judgment  thus  upon  record,  let  us  close  with  what  charity  we 
can,  by  remarking  that  even  in  this  volume  there  is  some  good  to 
be  found;  for  whenever  the  author  talks  of  his  own  country  and 
lets  Europe  alone,  he  never  fails  to  make  himself  interesting, 
and  not  only  interesting,  but  instructive.  No  one  can  read 
without  benefit  his  occasional  chapters  and  paragraphs,  about 
life  in  the  gold  and  silver  mines  of  California  and  Nevada; 
285 


MARK    TWAIN 

about  the  Indians  of  the  plains  and  deserts  of  the  West,  and  their 
cannibalism;  about  the  raising  of  vegetables  in  kegs  of  gun- 
powder by  the  aid  of  two  or  three  teaspoonfuls  of  guano;  about 
the  moving  of  small  farms  from  place  to  place  at  night  in  wheel- 
barrows to  avoid  taxes;  and  about  a  sort  of  cows  and  mules  in 
the  Humboldt  mines,  that  climb  down  chimneys  and  disturb  the 
people  at  night.  These  matters  are  not  only  new,  but  are  well 
worth  knowing.  It  is  a  pity  the  author  did  not  put  in  more  of 
the  same  kind.  His  book  is  well  written  and  is  exceedingly 
entertaining,  and  so  it  just  barely  escaped  being  quite  valuable 


(One  month  later) 

Latterly  I  have  received  several  letters,  and  see  a 
number  of  newspaper  paragraphs,  all  upon  a  certain 
subject,  and  all  of  about  the  same  tenor.  I  here  give 
honest  specimens.  One  is  from  a  New  York  paper, 
one  is  from  a  letter  from  an  old  friend,  and  one 
is  from  a  letter  from  a  New  York  publisher  who  is  a 
stranger  to  me.  I  humbly  endeavor  to  make  these 
bits  toothsome  with  the  remark  that  the  article 
they  are  praising  (which  appeared  in  the  December 
Galaxy,  and  pretended  to  be  a  criticism  from  the 
London  Saturday  Review  on  my  Innocents  Abroad) 
was  written  by  myself,  every  line  of  it: 

The  Herald  says  the  richest  thing  out  is  the  "serious  critique" 
in  the  London  Saturday  Review,  on  Mark  Twain's  Innocents 
A  broad.  We  thought  before  we  read  it  that  it  must  be  "serious," 
as  everybody  said  so,  and  were  even  ready  to  shed  a  few  tears; 
but  since  perusing  it,  we  are  bound  to  confess  that  next  to  Mark 
Twain's  "Jumping  Frog"  it's  the  finest  bit  of  humor  and 
sarcasm  that  we've  come  across  in  many  a  day. 

(I  do  not  get  a  compliment  like  that  every  day.) 

I  used  to  think  that  your  writings  were  pretty  good,  but 
after  reading  the  criticism  in  The  Galaxy  from  the  London 
286 


AN    ENTERTAINING    ARTICLE 

Review,  have  discovered  what  an  ass  I  must  have  been.  If 
suggestions  are  in  order,  mine  is,  that  you  put  that  article  in 
your  next  edition  of  the  Innocents,  as  an  extra  chapter,  if  you 
are  not  afraid  to  put  your  own  humor  in  competition  with  it. 
It  is  as  rich  a  thing  as  I  ever  read. 

(Which  is  strong  commendation  from  a  book  pub- 
lisher.) 

The  London  Reviewer,  my  friend,  is  not  the  stupid,  "serious" 
creature  he  pretends  to  be,  /  think;  but,  on  the  contrary,  has  a 
keen  appreciation  and  enjoyment  of  your  book.  As  I  read  his 
article  in  The  Galaxy,  I  could  imagine  him  giving  vent  to  many 
a  hearty  laugh.  But  he  is  writing  for  Catholics  and  Established 
Church  people,  and  high-toned,  antiquated,  conservative 
gentility,  whom  it  is  a  delight  to  him  to  help  you  shock,  while  he 
pretends  to  shake  his  head  with  owlish  density.  He  is  a  magnifi- 
cent humorist  himself. 

(Now  that  is  graceful  and  handsome.  I  take  off 
my  hat  to  my  life-long  friend  and  comrade,  and  with 
my  feet  together  and  my  fingers  spread  over  my 
heart,  I  say,  in  the  language  of  Alabama,  "You  do 
me  proud.") 

I  stand  guilty  of  the  authorship  of  the  article,  but 
I  did  not  mean  any  harm.  I  saw  by  an  item  in  the 
Boston  Advertiser  that  a  solemn,  serious  critique  on 
the  English  edition  of  my  book  had  appeared  in  the 
London  Saturday  Review,  and  the  idea  of  such  a 
literary  breakfast  by  a  stolid,  ponderous  British  ogre 
of  the  quill  was  too  much  for  a  naturally  weak  vir- 
tue, and  I  went  home  and  burlesqued  it — reveled 
in  it,  I  may  say.  I  never  saw  a  copy  of  the  real 
Saturday  Review  criticism  until  after  my  burlesque 
was  written  and  mailed  to  the  printer.  But  when  I 
did  get  hold  of  a  copy,  I  found  it  to  be  vulgar,  awk- 
287 


MARK    TWAIN 

wardly  written,  ill-natured,  and  entirely  serious  and 
in  earnest.  The  gentleman  who  wrote  the  news- 
paper paragraph  above  quoted  had  not  been  mis- 
led as  to  its  character. 

If  any  man  doubts  my  word  now,  I  will  kill  him. 
No,  I  will  not  kill  him ;  I  will  win  his  money.  I  will 
bet  him  twenty  to  one,  and  let  any  New  York  pub- 
lisher hold  the  stakes,  that  the  statements  I  have 
above  made  as  to  the  authorship  of  the  article  in 
question  are  entirely  true.  Perhaps  I  may  get 
wealthy  at  this,  for  I  am  willing  to  take  all  the  bets 
that  offer;  and  if  a  man  wants  larger  odds,  I  will 
give  him  all  he  requires.  But  he  ought  to  find  out 
whether  I  am  betting  on  what  is  termed  "a  sure 
thing"  or  not  before  he  ventures  his  money,  and  he 
can  do  that  by  going  to  a  public  library  and  examin- 
ing the  London  Saturday  Review  of  October  8th, 
which  contains  the  real  critique. 

Bless  me,  some  people  thought  that  I  was  the 
"sold"  person! 

P.  S. — I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  toss  in 
this  most  savory  thing  of  all — this  easy,  graceful, 
philosophical  disquisition,  with  its  happy,  chirping 
confidence.  It  is  from  the  Cincinnati  Enquirer: 

Nothing  is  more  uncertain  than  the  value  of  a  fine  cigar. 
Nine  smokers  out  of  ten  would  prefer  an  ordinary  domestic 
article,  three  for  a  quarter,  to  a  fifty-cent  Partaga,  if  kept  in 
ignorance  of  the  cost  of  the  latter.  The  flavor  of  the  Partaga 
is  too  delicate  for  palates  that  have  been  accustomed  to  Connect- 
icut seed  leaf.  So  it  is  with  humor.  The  finer  it  is  in  quality, 
the  more  danger  of  its  not  being  recognized  at  all.  Even  Mark 
Twain  has  been  taken  in  by  an  English  review  of  his  Innocents 
288 


AN    ENTERTAINING    ARTICLE 

A  broad.  Mark  Twain  is  by  no  means  a  coarse  humorist,  but  the 
Englishman's  humor  is  so  much  finer  than  his,  that  he  mistakes 
it  for  solid  earnest,  and  "larfs  most  consumedly." 

A  man  who  cannot  learn  stands  in  his  own  light. 
Hereafter,  when  I  write  an  article  which  I  know  to 
be  good,  but  which  I  may  have  reason  to  fear  will 
not,  in  some  quarters,  be  considered  to  amount  to 
much,  coming  from  an  American,  I  will  aver  that  an 
Englishman  wrote  it  and  that  it  is  copied  from  a 
London  journal.  And  then  I  will  occupy  a  back  seat 
and  enjoy  the  cordial  applause. 

(Still  later) 

Mark  Twain  at  last  sees  that  the  Saturday  Review's  criticism 
of  his  Innocents  Abroad  was  not  serious,  and  he  is  intensely 
mortified  at  the  thought  of  having  been  so  badly  sold.  He  takes 
the  only  course  left  him,  and  in  the  last  Galaxy  claims  that  he 
wrote  the  criticism  himself,  and  published  it  in  The  Galaxy  to 
sell  the  public.  This  is  ingenious,  but  unfortunately  it  is  not 
true.  If  any  of  our  readers  will  take  the  trouble  to  call  at  this 
office  we  will  show  them  the  original  article  in  the  Saturday 
rjffffrir  of  October  8th,  which,  on  comparison,  will  be  found  to  be 
identical  with  the  one  published  in  The  Galaxy.  The  best 
thing  for  Mark  to  do  will  be  to  admit  that  he  was  sold,  and  say 
no  more  about  it. 

The  above  is  from  the  Cincinnati  Enquirer,  and  is 
a  falsehood.  Come  to  the  proof.  If  the  Enquirer 
people,  through  any  agent,  will  produce  at  The 
Galaxy  office  a  London  Saturday  Review  of  October 
8th,  containing  an  "article  which,  on  comparison, 
will  be  found  to  be  identical  with  the  one  published 
in  The  Galaxy,  I  will  pay  to  that  agent  five  hundred 
dollars  cash.  Moreover,  if  at  any  specified  time  I 
289 


MARK     TWAIN 

fail  to  produce  at  the  same  place  a  copy  of  the  Lon- 
don Saturday  Review  of  October  8th,  containing  a 
lengthy  criticism  upon  the  Innocents  Abroad,  entire- 
ly different,  in  every  paragraph  and  sentence,  from 
the  one  I  published  in  The  Galaxy,  I  will  pay  to  the 
Enquirer  agent  another  five  hundred  dollars  cash. 
I  offer  Sheldon  &  Co.,  publishers,  500  Broadway, 
New  York,  as  my ' '  backers. ' '  Any  one  in  New  York, 
authorized  by  the  Enquirer,  will  receive  prompt  at- 
tention. It  is  an  easy  and  profitable  way  for  the 
Enquirer  people  to  prove  that  they  have  not  uttered 
a  pitiful,  deliberate  falsehood  in  the  above  para- 
graphs. Will  they  swallow  that  falsehood  ignomini- 
ously,  or  will  they  send  an  agent  to  The  Galaxy 
office.  I  think  the  Cincinnati  Enquirer  must  be 
edited  by  children. 


A  LETTER  TO  THE   SECRETARY 
OF   THE   TREASURY 

RlVERDALE-ON-THE-HuDSON,  October  /5,  1002. 

The  Hon.  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury,  Washington, 
L) .  G . .' 

SIR, — Prices  for  the  customary  kinds  of  winter 
fuel  having  reached  an  altitude  which  puts  them 
out  of  the  reach  of  literary  persons  in  straitened  cir- 
cumstances, I  desire  to  place  with  you  the  following 
order: 

Forty-five  tons  best  old  dry  government  bonds, 
suitable  for  furnace,  gold  7  per  cents.,  1864,  pre- 
ferred. 

Twelve  tons  early  greenbacks,  range  size,  suitable 
for  cooking. 

Eight  barrels  seasoned  25  and  50  cent  postal  cur- 
rency, vintage  of  1866,  eligible  for  kindlings. 

Please  deliver  with  all  convenient  despatch  at  my 
house  in  Riverdale  at  lowest  rates  for  spot  cash,  and 
send  bill  to  Your  obliged  servant, 

MARK  TWAIN, 
who  will  be  very  grateful,  and  will  vote  right. 


291 


AMENDED    OBITUARIES 

To  the  Editor: 

SIR, — I  am  approaching  seventy;  it  is  in  sight; 
it  is  only  three  years  away.  Necessarily,  I  must 
go  soon.  It  is  but  matter-of-course  wisdom,  then, 
that  I  should  begin  to  set  my  worldly  house  in  order 
now,  so  that  it  may  be  done  calmly  and  with  thor- 
oughness, in  place  of  waiting  until  the  last  day,  when, 
as  we  have  often  seen,  the  attempt  to  set  both  houses 
in  order  at  the  same  time  has  been  marred  by  the 
necessity  for  haste  and  by  the  confusion  and  waste 
of  time  arising  from  the  inability  of  the  notary  and 
the  ecclesiastic  to  work  together  harmoniously,  taking 
turn  about  and  giving  each  other  friendly  assistance 
• — not  perhaps  in  fielding,  which  could  hardly  be  ex- 
pected, but  at  least  in  the  minor  offices  of  keeping 
game  and  umpiring ;  by  consequence  of  which  conflict 
of  interests  and  absence  of  harmonious  action  a  draw 
has  frequently  resulted  where  this  ill-fortune  could 
not  have  happened  if  the  houses  had  been  set  in  order 
one  at  a  time  and  hurry  avoided  by  beginning  in 
season,  and  giving  to  each  the  amount  of  time  fairly 
and  justly  proper  to  it. 

In  setting  my  earthly  house  in  order  I  find  it  of 

moment  that  I  should  attend  in  person  to  one  or  two 

292 


AMENDED  OBITUARIES 
matters  which  men  in  my  position  have  long  had  the 
habit  of  leaving  wholly  to  others,  with  consequences 
often  most  regrettable.  I  wish  to  speak  of  only  one 
of  these  matters  at  this  time:  Obituaries.  Of  neces- 
sity, on  Obituary  is  a  thing  which  cannot  be  so  judi- 


ciously  edited  by  any  hand  as  by  that  of  the  subject 
of  it.  In  such  a  work  it  is  not  the  Facts  that  are  of 
chief  importance,  but  the  light  which  the  obituarist 
shall  throw  upon  them,  the  meanings  which  he  shall 
dress  them  in,  the  conclusions  which  he  shall  draw 
from  them,  and  the  judgments  which  he  shall  deliver 
upon  them.  The  Verdicts,  you  understand :  that  is 
the  danger-line. 

In  considering  this  matter,  in  view  of  my  approach- 
ing change,  it  has  seemed  to  me  wise  to  take  such 
293 


MARK    TWAIN 

measures  as  may  be  feasible,  to  acquire,  by  courtesy 
of  the  press,  access  to  my  standing  obituaries,  with 
the  privilege — if  this  is  not  asking  too  much — of 
editing,  not  their  Facts,  but  their  Verdicts.  This, 
not  for  present  profit,  further  than  as  concerns 
my  family,  but  as  a  favorable  influence  usable  on 
the  Other  Side,  where  there  are  some  who  are  not 
friendly  to  me. 

With  this  explanation  of  my  motives,  I  will  now 
ask  you  of  your  courtesy  to  make  an  appeal  for  me 
to  the  public  press.  It  is  my  desire  that  such  journals 
and  periodicals  as  have  obituaries  of  me  lying  in  their 
pigeonholes,  with  a  view  to  sudden  use  some  day, 
will  not  wait  longer,  but  will  publish  them  now,  and 
kindly  send  me  a  marked  copy.  My  address  is  sim- 
ply New  York  City — I  have  no  other  that  is  perma- 
nent and  not  transient. 

I  will  correct  them — not  the  Facts,  but  the  Ver- 
dicts—  striking  out  such  clauses  as  could  have  a 
deleterious  influence  on  the  Other  Side,  and  re- 
placing them  with  clauses  of  a  more  judicious 
character.  I  should,  of  course,  expect  to  pay 
double  rates  for  both  the  omissions  and  the  sub- 
stitutions; and  I  should  also  expect  to  pay  quad- 
ruple rates  for  all  obituaries  which  proved  to  be 
rightly  and  wisely  worded  in  the  originals,  thus  re- 
quiring no  emendations  at  all. 

It  is  my  desire  to  leave  these  Amended  Obituaries 
neatly  bound  behind  me  as  a  perennial  consolation 
and  entertainment  to  my  family,  and  as  an  heirloom 
which  shall  have  a  mournful  but  definite  commercial 
value  for  my  remote  posterity. 
294 


AMENDED    OBITUARIES 

I  beg,  sir,  that  you  will  insert  this  Advertisement 
(it-eow,  agate,  inside),  and  send  the  bill  to 
Yours  very  respectfully. 

MARK  TWAIN. 

P.  S. — For  the  best  Obituary — one  suitable  for  me 
to  read  in  public,  and  calculated  to  inspire  regret — 
I  desire  to  offer  a  Prize,  consisting  of  a  Portrait  of  me 
done  entirely  by  myself  in  pen  and  ink  without  previ- 
ous instructions.  The  ink  warranted  to  be  the  kind 
used  by  the  very  best  artists. 


A   MONUMENT  TO  ADAM 

SOME  one  has  revealed  to  the  Tribune  that  I  once 
suggested  to  Rev.  Thomas  K.  Beecher,  of  El- 
mira,  New  York,  that  we  get  up  a  monument  to 
Adam,  and  that  Mr.  Beecher  favored  the  project. 
There  is  more  to  it  than  that.  The  matter  started  as 
a  joke,  but  it  came  somewhat  near  to  materializing. 

It  is  long  ago — thirty  years.  Mr.  Darwin's  Descent 
of  Man  had  been  in  print  five  or  six  years,  and  the 
storm  of  indignation  raised  by  it  was  still  raging  in 
pulpits  and  periodicals.  In  tracing  the  genesis  of  the 
human  race  back  to  its  sources,  Mr.  Darwin  had  left 
Adam  out  altogether.  We  had  monkeys,  and  "miss- 
ing links,"  and  plenty  of  other  kinds  of  ancestors, 
but  no  Adam.  Jesting  with  Mr.  Beecher  and  other 
friends  in  Elmira,  I  said  there  seemed  to  be  a  likeli- 
hood that  the  world  would  discard  Adam  and  accept 
the  monkey,  and  that  in  the  course  of  time  Adam's 
very  name  would  be  forgotten  in  the  earth ;  therefore 
this  calamity  ought  to  be  averted;  a  monument 
would  accomplish  this,  and  Elmira  ought  not  to  waste 
this  honorable  opportunity  to  do  Adam  a  favor  and 
herself  a  credit. 

Then  the  unexpected  happened.     Two  bankers 
came  forward  and  took  hold  of  the  matter — not  for  N 
fun,  not  for  sentiment,  but  because  they  saw  in  the 
296 


A    MONUMENT    TO    ADAM 

monument  certain  commercial  advantages  for  the 
town.  The  project  had  seemed  gently  humorous 
before — it  was  more  than  that  now,  with  this  stem 
business  gravity  injected  into  it.  The  bankers  dis- 
cussed the  monument  with  me.  We  met  several 
times.  They  proposed  an  indestructible  memorial, 
to  cost  twenty-five  thousand  dollars.  The  insane 
oddity  of  a  monument  set  up  in  a  village  to  preserve 
a  name  that  would  outlast  the  hills  and  the  rocks 
without  any  such  help,  would  advertise  Elmira  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth — and  draw  custom.  It  would 
be  the  only  monument  on  the  planet  to  Adam,  and 
in  the  matter  of  interest  and  impressiveness  could 
never  have  a  rival  until  somebody  should  set  up  a 
monument  to  the  Milky  Way. 

People  would  come  from  every  corner  of  the  globe 
and  stop  off  to  look  at  it,  no  tour  of  the  world  would 
be  complete  that  left  out  Adam's  monument.  Elmira 
would  be  a  Mecca;  there  would  be  pilgrim  ships  at 
pilgrim  rates,  pilgrim  specials  on  the  continent's  rail- 
ways; libraries  would  be  written  about  the  monu- 
ment, every  tourist  would  kodak  it,  models  of  it 
would  be  for  sale  everywhere  in  the  earth,  its  form 
would  become  as  familiar  as  the  figure  of  Napoleon. 

One  of  the  bankers  subscribed  five  thousand  dol- 
lars, and  I  think  the  other  one  subscribed  half  as 
much,  but  I  do  not  remember  with  certainty  now 
whether  that  was  the  figure  or  not.  We  got  designs 
made — some  of  them  came  from  Paris. 

In  the  beginning — as  a  detail  of  the  project  when 
it  was  as  yet  a  joke — I  had  framed  a  humble  and  be- 
seeching and  perfervid  petition  to  Congress  begging 
297 


MARK    TWAIN 

the  government  to  build  the  monument,  as  a  testi- 
mony of  the  Great  Republic's  gratitude  to  the  Father 
of  the  Human  Race  and  as  a  token  of  her  loyalty  to 
him  in  this  dark  day  of  his  humiliation  when  his 
older  children  were  doubting  him  and  deserting  him. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  this  petition  ought  to  be 
presented,  now — it  would  be  widely  and  feelingly 
abused  and  ridiculed  and  cursed,  and  would  adver- 
tise our  scheme  and  make  our  ground-floor  stock  go 
off  briskly.  So  I  sent  it  to  General  Joseph  R. 
Hawley,  who  was  then  in  the  House,  and  he  said  he 
would  present  it.  But  he  did  not  do  it.  I  think  he 
explained  that  when  he  came  to  read  it  he  was 
afraid  of  it :  it  was  too  serious,  too  gushy,  too  senti- 
mental— the  House  might  take  it  for  earnest. 

We  ought  to  have  carried  out  our  monument 
scheme;  we  could  have  managed  it  wothout  any 
great  difficulty,  and  Elmira  would  now  be  the  most 
celebrated  town  in  the  universe. 

Very  recently  I  began  to  build  a  book  in  which  one 
of  the  minor  characters  touches  incidentally  upon 
a  project  for  a  monument  to  Adam,  and  now  the 
Tribune  has  come  upon  a  trace  of  the  forgotten  jest 
of  thirty  years  ago.  Apparently  mental  telegraphy 
is  still  in  business.  It  is  odd;  but  the  freaks  of 
mental  telegraphy  are  usually  odd. 


A  HUMANE  WORD  FROM  SATAN 

(The  following  letter,  signed  by  Satan  and  purporting  to  come 
from  him,  we  have  reason  to  believe  was  not  written  by  him, 
but  by  Mark  Twain.— EDITOK.] 

To  ike  Editor  of  Harper's  Weekly. 

DEAR  SIR  AND  KINSMAN, — Let  us  have  done  with 
this  frivolous  talk.  The  American  Board  accepts  con- 
tributions from  me  every  year:  then  why  shouldn't 
it  from  Mr.  Rockefeller?  In  all  the  ages,  three- 
fourths  of  the  support  of  the  great  charities  has  been 
conscience-money,  as  my  books  will  show :  then  what 
becomes  of  the  sting  when  that  term  is  applied  to 
Mr.  Rockefeller's  gift?  The  American  Board's  trade 
is  financed  mainly  from  the  graveyards.  Bequests, 
you  understand.  Conscience-money.  Confession  of 
an  old  crime  and  deliberate  perpetration  of  a  new 
one;  for  deceased's  contribution  is  a  robbery  of  his 
heirs.  Shall  the  Board  decline  bequests  because  they 
stand  for  one  of  these  offenses  every  time  and  gen- 
erally for  both? 

Allow  me  to  continue.  The  charge  most  persis- 
tently and  resentfully  and  remorselessly  dwelt  upon 
is  that  Mr.  Rockefeller's  contribution  is  incurably 
tainted  by  perjury — perjury  proved  against  him  in 
the  courts.  //  makes  us  smile — down  in  my  place! 
Because  there  isn't  a  rich  man  in  your  vast  city  who 
299 


MARK    TWAIN 

doesn't  perjure  himself  every  year  before  the  tax 
board.  They  are  all  caked  with  perjury,  many  layers 
thick.  Iron-clad,  so  to  speak.  If  there  is  one  that 
isn't,  I  desire  to  acquire  him  for  my  museum,  and 
will  pay  Dinosaur  rates.  Will  you  say  it  isn't  in- 
fraction of  law,  but  only  annual  evasion  of  it? 
Comfort  yourselves  with  that  nice  distinction  if  you 
like — for  the  present.  But  by  and  by,  when  you 
arrive,  I  will  show  you  something  interesting:  a 
whole  hell-full  of  evaders!  Sometimes  a  frank  law- 
breaker turns  up  elsewhere,  but  I  get  those  others 
every  time. 

To  return  to  my  muttons.  I  wish  you  to  remem- 
ber that  my  rich  perjurers  are  contributing  to  the 
American  Board  with  frequency:  it  is  money  filched 
from  the  sworn-off  personal  tax;  therefore  it  is  the 
wages  of  sin;  therefore  it  is  my  money;  therefore  it 
is  J  that  contribute  it;  and,  finally,  it  is  therefore 
as  I  have  said:  since  the  Board  daily  accepts  con- 
tributions from  me,  why  should  it  decline  them 
from  Mr.  Rockefeller,  who  is  as  good  as  I  am,  let  the 
courts  say  what  they  may? 

SATAN. 


INTRODUCTION   TO   "THE  NEW 
GUIDE  OF  THE  CONVERSA- 
TION IN  PORTUGUESE 
AND   ENGLISH" 

BY   PEDRO    CAROLINO 

IN  this  world  of  uncertainties,  there  is,  at  any  rate, 
one  thing  which  may  be  pretty  confidently  set 
down  as  a  certainty :  and  that  is,  that  this  celebrated 
little  phrase-book  will  never  die  while  the  English 
language  lasts.  Its  delicious  unconscious  ridiculous- 
ness, and  its  enchanting  nalvet6,  are  as  supreme  and 
unapproachable,  in  their  way,  as  are  Shakespeare's 
sublimities.  Whatsoever  is  perfect  in  its  kind,  in 
literature,  is  imperishable:  nobody  can  add  to  the 
absurdity  of  this  book,  nobody  can  imitate  it  suc- 
cessfully, nobody  can  hope  to  produce  its  fellow;  it 
is  perfect,  it  must  and  will  stand  alone:  its  immor- 
tality is  secure. 

It  is  one  of  the  smallest  books  in  the  world,  but 
few  big  books  have  received  such  wide  attention,  and 
been  so  much  pondered  by  the  grave  and  the  learned, 
and  so  much  discussed  and  written  about  by  the 
thoughtful,  the  thoughtless,  the  wise,  and  the  foolish. 
Long  notices  of  it  have  appeared,  from  time  to  time, 
in  the  great  English  reviews,  and  in  erudite  and 
301 


MARK    TWAIN 

authoritative  philological  periodicals ;  and  it  has  been 
laughed  at,  danced  upon,  and  tossed  in  a  blanket  by 
nearly  every  newspaper  and  magazine  in  the  English- 
speaking  world.  Every  scribbler,  almost,  has  had 
his  little  fling  at  it,  at  one  time  or  another;  I  had 
mine  fifteen  years  ago.  The  book  gets  out  of  print, 
every  now  and  then,  and  one  ceases  to  hear  of  it  for 
a  season;  but  presently  the  nations  and  near  and 
far  colonies  of  our  tongue  and  lineage  call  for  it  once 
more,  and  once  more  it  issues  from  some  London  or 
Continental  or  American  press,  and  runs  a  new  course 
around  the  globe,  wafted  on  its  way  by  the  wind  of 
a  world's  laughter. 

Many  persons  have  believed  that  this  book's 
miraculous  stupidities  were  studied  and  disingenu- 
ous ;  but  no  one  can  read  the  volume  carefully  through 
and  keep  that  opinion.  It  was  written  in  serious 
good  faith  and  deep  earnestness,  by  an  honest  and 
upright  idiot  who  believed  he  knew  something  of  the 
English  language,  and  could  impart  his  knowledge  to 
others.  The  amplest  proof  of  this  crops  out  some- 
where or  other  upon  each  and  every  page.  There  are 
sentences  in  the  book  which  could  have  been  manu- 
factured by  a  man  in  his  right  mind,  and  with  an 
intelligent  and  deliberate  purpose  to  seem  innocently 
ignorant;  but  there  are  other  sentences,  and  para- 
graphs, which  no  mere  pretended  ignorance  could 
ever  achieve — nor  yet  even  the  most  genuine  and 
comprehensive  ignorance,  when  unbacked  by  in- 
spiration. 

It  is  not  a  fraud  who  speaks  in  the  following  para- 
graph of  the  author's  Preface,  but  a  good  man,  an 
302 


THE    GUIDE    OF    CONVERSATION 

honest  man,  a  man  whose  conscience  is  at  rest,  a 
man  who  believes  he  has  done  a  high  and  worthy 
work  for  his  nation  and  his  generation,  and  is  well 
pleased  with  his  performance: 

We  expect  then,  who  the  little  book  (for  the  care  what  we 
wrote  him,  and  for  her  typographical  correction)  that  may  be 
worth  the  acceptation  of  the  studious  persons,  and  especialy 
of  the  Youth,  at  which  we  dedicate  him  particularly. 

One  cannot  open  this  book  anywhere  and  not  find 
richness.  To  prove  that  this  is  true,  I  will  open  it 
at  random  and  copy  the  page  I  happen  to  stumble 
upon.  Here  is  the  result: 

DIALOGUE  16 

POR  TO  SEE  THE  TOWN 

Anothony,  go  to  accompany  they  gentilsmen,  do  they  see  the 
town. 

We  won't  to  see  all  that  is  it  remarquable  here. 

Come  with  me,  if  you  please.  I  shall  not  folget  nothing 
what  can  to  merit  your  attention.  Here  we  are  near  to  cathe- 
dral; will  you  come  in  there? 

We  will  first  to  see  him  in  oudside,  after  we  shall  go  in  there 
for  to  look  the  interior. 

Admire  this  master  piece  gothic  architecture's. 

The  chasing  of  all  they  figures  is  astonishing'  indeed. 

The  cupola  and  the  nave  are  not  less  curious  to  see. 

What  is  this  palace  how  I  see  youder? 

It  is  the  town  hall. 

And  this  tower  here  at  this  side? 

It  is  the  Observatory. 

The  bridge  is  very  fine,  it  have  ten  arches,  and  is  constructed 
of  free  stone. 

The  streets  are  very  layed  out  by  line  and  too  paved. 

What  is  the  circuit  of  this  town? 

Two  leagues. 

303 


MARK    TWAIN 

There  is  it  also  hospitals  here? 

It  not  fail  them. 

What  are  then  the  edifices  the  worthest  to  have  seen? 

It  is  the  arsnehal,  the  spectacle's  hall,  the  Customhouse,  and 
the  Purse. 

We  are  going  too  see  the  others  monuments  such  that  the 
public  pawnbroker's  office,  the  plants  garden's,  the  money 
office's,  the  library. 

That  it  shall  be  for  another  day;  we  are  tired. 


DIALOGUE  17 
TO  INFORM  ONE'SELF  OF  A  PERSON 

How  is  that  gentilman  who  you  did  speak  by  and  by? 

Is  a  German. 

I  did  think  him  Englishman. 

He  is  of  the  Saxony  side. 

He  speak  the  french  very  well. 

Tough  he  is  German,  he  speak  so  much  well  italyan,  french, 
Spanish  and  english,  that  among  the  Italyans,  they  believe  him 
Italyan,  he  speak  the  frenche  as  the  Frenches  himselves.  The 
Spanishesmen  believe  him  Spanishing,  and  the  Englishes, 
Englisman.  It  is  difficult  to  enjoy  well  so  much  several  Ian- 
gages. 

The  last  remark  contains  a  general  truth ;  but  it 
ceases  to  be  a  truth  when  one  contracts  it  and  applies 
it  to  an  individual — provided  that  that  individual  is 
the  author  of  this  book,  Senhor  Pedro  Carolino.  I 
am  sure  I  should  not  find  it  difficult  "to  enjoy  well 
so  much  several  Ian  gages" — or  even  a  thousand  of 
them — if  he  did  the  translating  for  me  from  the 
originals  into  his  ostensible  English. 


ADVICE    TO    LITTLE    GIRLS 


OOD  little  girls  ought  not  to  make  mouths  at 
their  teachers  for  every  trifling  offense.  This 
retaliation  should  only  be  resorted  to  under  pecu- 
liarly aggravated  circumstances. 

If  you  have  nothing  but  a  rag-doll  stuffed  with 
sawdust,  while  one  of  your  more  fortunate  little  play- 
mates has  a  costly  China  one,  you  should  treat  her 
with  a  show  of  kindness  nevertheless.  And  you 
ought  not  to  attempt  to  make  a  forcible  swap  with 
her  unless  your  conscience  would  justify  you  in  it, 
and  you  know  you  are  able  to  do  it. 

You  ought  never  to  take  your  little  brother's 
"chewing-gum"  away  from  him  by  main  force;  it  is 
better  to  rope  him  in  with  the  promise  of  the  first 
two  dollars  and  a  half  you  find  floating  down  the 
river  on  a*  grindstone.  In  the  artless  simplicity 
natural  to  his  time  of  life,  he  will  regard  it  as  a  per- 
fectly fair  transaction.  In  all  ages  of  the  world  this 
eminently  plausible  fiction  has  lured  the  obtuse  infant 
to  financial  ruin  and  disaster. 

If  at  any  time  you  find  it  necessary  to  correct  your 
brother,  do  not  correct  him  with  mud  —  never,  on  any 
account,  throw  mud  at  him,  because  it  will  spoil  his 
clothes.  It  is  better  to  scald  him  a  little,  for  then 
you  obtain  desirable  results.  You  secure  his  imme- 
305 


MARK    TWAIN 

diate  attention  to  the  lessons  you  are  inculcating, 
and  at  the  same  time  your  hot  water  will  have  a 
tendency  to  move  impurities  from  his  person,  and 
possibly  the  skin,  in  spots. 

If  your  mother  tells  you  to  do  a  thing,  it  is  wrong 
to  reply  that  you  won't.  It  is  better  and  more  be- 
coming to  intimate  that  you  will  do  as  she  bids  you, 
and  then  afterward  act  quietly  in  the  matter  accord- 
ing to  the  dictates  of  your  best  judgment. 

You  should  ever  bear  in  mind  that  it  is  to  your 
kind  parents  that  you  are  indebted  for  your  food,  and 
your  nice  bed,  and  for  your  beautiful  clothes,  and 
for  the  privilege  of  staying  home  from  school  when 
you  let  on  that  you  are  sick.  Therefore  you  ought  to 
respect  their  little  prejudices,  and  humor  their  little 
whims,  and  put  up  with  their  little  foibles  until  they 
get  to  crowding  you  too  much. 

Good  little  girls  always  show  marked  deference  for 
the  aged.  You  ought  never  to  "sass"  old  people 
unless  they  "sass"  you  first. 


POST-MORTEM    POETRY1 

IN  Philadelphia  they  have  a  custom  which  it  would 
be  pleasant  to  see  adopted  throughout  the  land. 
It  is  that  of  appending  to  published  death-notices  a 
little  verse  or  two  of  comforting  poetry.  Any  one 
who  is  in  the  habit  of  reading  the  daily  Philadelphia 
Ledger  must  frequently  be  touched  by  these  plain- 
tive tributes  to  extinguished  worth.  In  Philadelphia, 
the  departure  of  a  child  is  a  circumstance  which  is 
not  more  surely  followed  by  a  burial  than  by  the 
accustomed  solacing  poesy  in  the  Public  Ledger.  In 
that  city  death  loses  half  its  terror  because  the  knowl- 
edge of  its  presence  comes  thus  disguised  in  the  sweet 
drapery  of  verse.  For  instance,  in  a  late  Ledger  I 
find  the  following  (I  change  the  surname): 

DIED 

HAWKS. — On  the  lyth  inst.,  Clara,  the  daughter  of  Ephraim 
and  Laura  Hawks,  aged  21  months  and  2  days. 

That  merry  shout  no  more  I  hear, 

No  laughing  child  I  see, 
No  little  arms  are  round  my  neck, 

No  feet  upon  my  knee; 

No  kisses  drop  upon  my  cheek, 
These  lips  are  sealed  to  me. 
Dear  Lord,  how  could  I  give  Clara  up 
To  any  but  to  Thee? 

'Written  in  1870. 
307 


MARK     TWAIN 

A  child  thus  mourned  could  not  die  wholly  discon- 
tented. From  the  Ledger  of  the  same  date  I  make 
the  following  extract,  merely  changing  the  surname, 
as  before: 

BECKET. — On  Sunday  morning,  iQth  inst.,  John  P.,  infant  son 
of  George  and  Julia  Becket,  aged  i  year,  6  months,  and  15  days. 

That  merry  shout  no  more  I  hear, 

No  laughing  child  I  see, 
No  little  arms  are  round  my  neck, 

No  feet  upon  my  knee; 

No  kisses  drop  upon  my  cheek, 

These  lips  are  sealed  to  me. 
Dear  Lord,  how  could  I  give  Johnnie  up 

To  any  but  to  Thee? 

The  similarity  of  the  emotions  as  produced  in  the 
mourners  in  these  two  instances  is  remarkably  evi- 
denced by  the  singular  similarity  of  thought  which 
they  experienced,  and  the  surprising  coincidence  of 
language  used  by  them  to  give  it  expression. 

In  the  same  journal,  of  the  same  date,  I  find  the 
following  (surname  suppressed,  as  before) : 

WAGNER. — On  the  loth  inst.,  Ferguson  G.,  the  son  of  William 
L.  and  Martha  Theresa  Wagner,  aged  4  weeks  and  i  day. 

That  merry  shout  no  more  I  hear, 

No  laughing  child  I  see, 
No  little  arms  are  round  my  neck, 

No  feet  upon  my  knee; 

No  kisses  drop  upon  my  cheek, 

These  lips  are  sealed  to  me. 
Dear  Lord,  how  could  I  give  Ferguson  tip 

To  any  but  to  Thee? 

It  is  strange  what  power  the  reiteration  of  an 
essentially  poetical  thought  has  upon  one's  feelings. 
308 


POST-MORTEM    POETRY 

When  we  take  up  the  Ledger  and  read  the  poetry 
about  little  Clara,  we  feel  an  unaccountable  de- 
pression of  the  spirits.  When  we  drift  further  down 
the  column  and  read  the  poetry  about  little  Johnnie, 
the  depression  of  spirits  acquires  an  added  em- 
phasis, and  we  experience  tangible  suffering.  When 
we  saunter  along  down  the  column  further  still  and 
read  the  poetry  about  little  Ferguson,  the  word  tor- 
ture but  vaguely  suggests  the  anguish  that  rends  us. 
In  the  Ledger  (same  copy  referred  to  above)  I  find 
the  following  (I  alter  surname,  as  usual): 

WELCH. — On  the  sth  inst.,  Mary  C.  Welch,  wife  of  William  B. 
Welch,  and  daughter  of  Catharine  and  George  W.  Markland, 
in  the  2Qth  year  of  her  age. 

A  mother  dear,  a  mother  kind, 
Has  gone  and  left  us  all  behind. 
Cease  to  weep,  for  tears  are  vain, 
Mother  dear  is  out  of  pain. 

Farewell,  husband,  children  dear, 
Serve  thy  God  with  filial  fear, 
And  meet  me  in  the  land  above, 
Where  all  is  peace,  and  joy,  and  love. 

What  could  be  sweeter  than  that?  No  collection 
of  salient  facts  (without  reduction  to  tabular  form) 
could  be  more  succinctly  stated  than  is  done  in  the 
first  stanza  by  the  surviving  relatives,  and  no  more 
concise  and  comprehensive  program  of  farewells, 
post-mortuary  general  orders,  etc.,  could  be  framed 
in  any  form  than  is  done  in  verse  by  deceased  in  .the 
last  stanza.  These  things  insensibly  make  us  wiser 
and  tenderer,  and  better.  Another  extract: 
309 


MARK    TWAIN 

BALL. — On  the  morning  of  the  isth  inst.,  Mary  E.,  daughter 
of  John  and  Sarah  F.  Ball. 

"Pis  sweet  to  rest  in  lively  hope 
That  when  my  change  shall  come 

Angels  will  hover  round  my  bed, 
To  waft  my  spirit  home. 

The  following  is  apparently  the  customary  form  for 
heads  of  families: 

BURNS. — On  the  2oth  inst.,  Michael  Burns,  aged  40  years. 

Dearest  father,  thou  hast  left  us, 

Here  thy  loss  we  deeply  feel; 
But  'tis  God  that  has  bereft  us, 

He  can  all  our  sorrows  heal. 

Funeral  at  2  o'clock  sharp. 

There  is  something  very  simple  and  pleasant  about 
the  following,  which,  in  Philadelphia,  seems  to  be 
the  usual  form  for  consumptives  of  long  standing. 
(It  deplores  four  distinct  cases  in  the  single  copy  of 
the  Ledger  which  lies  on  the  Memoranda  editorial 
table) : 

BROMLEY. — On  the  2gth  inst.,  of  consumption,  Philip  Bromley, 
in  the  soth  year  of  his  age. 

Affliction  sore  long  time  he  bore, 

Physicians  were  in  vain — 
Till  God  at  last  did  hear  him  mourn, 

And  eased  him  of  his  pain. 

The  friend  whom  death  from  us  has  torn, 
We  did  not  think  so  soon  to  part; 

An  anxious  care  now  sinks  the  thorn 
Still  deeper  in  our  bleeding  heart. 
310 


POST-MORTEM    POETRY 

This  beautiful  creation  loses  nothing  by  repeti- 
tion. On  the  contrary,  the  oftener  one  sees  it  in  the 
Ledger,  the  more  grand  and  awe-inspiring  it  seems. 

With  one  more  extract  I  will  close: 

DOBLE.— On  the  4th  inst.,  Samuel  Peveril  Worthington 
Doble,  aged  4  days. 

Our  little  Sammy's  gone, 

His  tiny  spirit's  fled; 
Our  little  boy  we  loved  so  dear 

Lies  sleeping  with  the  dead. 

A  tear  within  a  father's  eye, 

A  mother's  aching  heart, 
Can  only  tell  the  agony 

How  hard  it  is  to  part. 

Could  anything  be  more  plaintive  than  that,  with- 
out requiring  further  concessions  of  grammar?  Could 
anything  be  likely  to  do  more  toward  reconciling 
deceased  to  circumstances,  and  making  him  willing 
to  go?  Perhaps  not.  The  power  of  song  can  hardly 
be  estimated.  There  is  an  element  about  some  po- 
etry which  is  able  to  make  even  physical  suffering 
and  death  cheerful  things  to  contemplate  and  con- 
summations to  be  desired.  This  element  is  present 
in  the  mortuary  poetry  of  Philadelphia  degree  of 
development. 

The  custom  I  have  been  treating  of  is  one  that 
should  be  adopted  in  all  the  cities  of  the  land. 

It  is  said  that  once  a  man  of  small  consequence 

died,  and  the  Rev.  T.  K.  Beecher  was  asked  to 

preach  the  funeral  sermon — a  man  who  abhors  the 

lauding  of  people,  either  dead  or  alive,  except  in 

3" 


MARK     TWAIN 

dignified  and  simple  language,  and  then  only  for 
merits  which  they  actually  possessed  or  possess,  not 
merits  which  they  merely  ought  to  have  possessed. 
The  friends  of  the  deceased  got  up  a  stately  funeral. 
They  must  have  had  misgivings  that  the  corpse 
might  not  be  praised  strongly  enough,  for  they  pre- 
pared some  manuscript  headings  and  notes  in  which 
nothing  was  left  unsaid  on  that  subject  that  a  fervid 
imagination  and  an  unabridged  dictionary  could 
compile,  and  these  they  handed  to  the  minister  as 
he  entered  the  pulpit.  They  were  merely  intended 
as  suggestions,  and  so  the  friends  were  filled  with 
consternation  when  the  minister  stood  up  in  the 
pulpit  and  proceeded  to  read  off  the  curious  odds  and 
ends  in  ghastly  detail  and  in  a  loud  voice!  And 
their  consternation  solidified  to  petrification  when 
he  paused  at  the  end,  contemplated  the  multitude 
reflectively,  and  then  said,  impressively: 

"The  man  would  be  a  fool  who  tried  to  add  any- 
thing to  that.  Let  us  pray!" 

And  with  the  same  strict  adhesion  to  truth  it  can 
be  said  that  the  man  would  be  a  fool  who  tried  to 
add  anything  to  the  following  transcendent  obituary 
poem.  There  is  something  so  innocent,  so  guileless, 
so  complacent,  so  unearthly  serene  and  self-satisfied 
about  this  peerless  "hog- wash,"  that  the  man  must 
be  made  of  stone  who  can  read  it  without  a  dulcet 
ecstasy  creeping  along  his  backbone  and  quivering 
in  his  marrow.  There  is  no  need  to  say  that  this 
poem  is  genuine  and  in  earnest,  for  its  proofs  are 
written  all  over  its  face.  An  ingenious  scribbler 
might  imitate  it  after  a  fashion,  but  Shakespeare 
3" 


POST-MORTEjM    POETRY 

himself  could  not  counterfeit  it.  It  is  noticeable  that 
the  country  editor  who  published  it  did  not  know 
that  it  was  a  treasure  and  the  most  perfect  thing  of 
its  kind  that  the  storehouses  and  museums  of  litera- 
ture could  show.  He  did  not  dare  to  say  no  to  the 
dread  poet — for  such  a  poet  must  have  been  some- 
thing of  an  apparition — but  he  just  shoveled  it  into 
his  paper  anywhere  that  came  handy,  and  felt 
ashamed,  and  put  that  disgusted  "Published  by  Re- 
quest" over  it,  and  hoped  that  his  subscribers  would 
overlook  it  or  not  feel  an  impulse  to  read  it: 

(Publislicd  by  request) 
LINES 

Composed  on  the  death  of  Samuel  and  Catharine  Belknap's 
children 

BY  M.   A.   GLAZE 

Friends  and  neighbors  all  draw  near, 
And  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say; 

And  never  leave  your  children  dear 
When  they  are  small,  and  go  away. 

But  always  think  of  that  sad  fate, 

That  happened  in  year  of  '63; 
Four  children  with  a  house  did  burn, 

Think  of  their  awful  agony. 

Their  mother  she  had  gone  away, 
And  left  them  there  alone  to  stay; 

The  house  took  fire  and  down  did  bum, 
Before  their  mother  did  return. 

Their  piteous  cry  the  neighbors  heard, 
And  then  the  cry  of  fire  was  given; 

But,  ah!    before  they  could  them  reach, 
Their  little  spirits  had  flown  to  heaven. 
313 


MARK    TWAIN 

Their  father  he  to  war  had  gone, 
And  on  the  battle-field  was  slain; 

But  little  did  he  think  when  he  went  away, 
But  what  on  earth  they  would  meet  again. 

The  neighbors  often  told  his  wife 

Not  to  leave  his  children  there, 
Unless  she  got  some  one  to  stay, 

And  of  the  little  ones  take  care. 

The  oldest  he  was  years  not  six, 

And  the  youngest  only  eleven  months  old, 
But  often  she  had  left  them  there  alone, 

As,  by  the  neighbors,  I  have  been  told. 

How  can  she  bear  to  see  the  place. 

Where  she  so  oft  has  left  them  there, 
Without  a  single  one  to  look  to  them, 

Or  of  the  little  ones  to  take  good  care. 

Oh,  can  she  look  upon  the  spot, 

Whereunder  their  little  burnt  bones  lay, 

But  what  she  thinks  she  hears  them  say, 
'  'Twas  God  had  pity,  and  took  us  on  high.5 

And  there  may  she  kneel  down  and  pray, 

And  ask  God  her  to  forgive; 
And  she  may  lead  a  different  life 

While  she  on  earth  remains  to  live. 

Her  husband  and  her  children  too, 
God  has  took  from  pain  and  woe. 

May  she  reform  and  mend  her  ways, 
That  she  may  also  to  them  go. 

And  when  it  is  God's  holy  will, 

O,  may  she  be  prepared 
To  meet  her  God  and  friends  in  peace, 

And  leave  this  world  of  care. 

3H 


THE  DANGER  OF  LYING  IN  BED 

THE  man  in  the  ticket-office  said: 
"Have  an  accident  insurance  ticket,  also?" 

"No,"  I  said,  after  studying  the  matter  over  a 
little.  "No,  I  believe  not;  I  am  going  to  be  travel- 
ing by  rail  all  day  to-day.  However,  to-morrow  I 
don't  travel.  Give  me  one  for  to-morrow." 

The  man  looked  puzzled.     He  said: 

"But  it  is  for  accident  insurance,  and  if  you  are 
going  to  travel  by  rail — " 

"If  I  am  going  to  travel  by  rail  I  sha'n't  need  it. 
Lying  at  home  in  bed  is  the  thing  /  am  afraid  of." 

I  had  been  looking  into  this  matter.  Last  year  I 
traveled  twenty  thousand  miles,  almost  entirely  by 
rail;  the  year  before,  I  traveled  over  twenty-five 
thousand  miles,  half  by  sea  and  half  by  rail;  and  the 
year  before  that  I  traveled  in  the  neighborhood  of 
ten  thousand  miles,  exclusively  by  rail.  I  suppose  if 
I  put  in  all  the  little  odd  journeys  here  and  there,  I 
may  say  I  have  traveled  sixty  thousand  miles  during 
the  three  years  I  have  mentioned.  And  never  an 
accident. 

For  a  good  while  I  said  to  myself  every  morning: 
"Now  I  have  escaped  thus  far,  and  so  the  chances  are 
just  that  much  increased  that  I  shall  catch  it  this 
time.  I  will  be  shrewd,  and  buy  an  accident  ticket." 


MARK    TWAIN 

And  to  a  dead  moral  certainty  I  drew  a  blank,  and 
went  to  bed  that  night  without  a  joint  started  or  a 
bone  splintered.  I  got  tired  of  that  sort  of  daily 
bother,  and  fell  to  buying  accident  tickets  that  were 
good  for  a  month.  I  said  to  myself,  "A  man  can't 
buy  thirty  blanks  in  one  bundle." 

But  I  was  mistaken.  There  was  never  a  prize  in 
the  lot.  I  could  read  of  railway  accidents  every  day 
— the  newspaper  atmosphere  was  foggy  with  them; 
but  somehow  they  never  came  my  way.  I  found  I 
had  spent  a  good  deal  of  money  in  the  accident  busi- 
ness, and  had  nothing  to  show  for  it.  My  suspicions 
were  aroused,  and  I  began  to  hunt  around  for  some- 
body that  had  won  in  this  lottery.  I  found  plenty 
of  people  who  had  invested,  but  not  an  individual 
that  had  ever  had  an  accident  or  made  a  cent.  I 
stopped  buying  accident  tickets  and  went  to  cipher- 
ing. The  result  was  astounding.  THE  PERIL  LAY 

NOT  IN  TRAVELING,  BUT  IN  STAYING  AT  HOME. 

I  hunted  up  statistics,  and  was  amazed  to  find  that 
after  all  the  glaring  newspaper  headings  concerning 
railroad  disasters,  less  than  three  hundred  people  had 
really  lost  their  lives  by  those  disasters  in  the  preced- 
ing twelve  months.  The  Erie  road  was  set  down  as 
the  most  murderous  in  the  list.  It  had  killed  forty- 
six — or  twenty-six,  I  do  not  exactly  remember  which, 
but  I  know  the  number  was  double  that  of  any  other 
road.  But  the  fact  straightway  suggested  itself  that 
the  Erie  was  an  immensely  long  road,  and  did  more 
business  than  any  other  line  in  the  country;  so  the 
double  number  of  killed  ceased  to  be  matter  for 
surprise. 

316 


DANGER    OF    LYING    IN    BED 

By  further  figuring,  it  appeared  that  between  New 
York  and  Rochester  the  Erie  ran  eight  passenger- 
trains  each  way  every  day— 16  altogether;  and 
carried  a  daily  average  of  6,000  persons.  That  is 
about  a  million  in  six  months — the  population  of 
New  York  City.  Well,  the  Erie  kills  from  13  to 
23  persons  out  of  its  million  in  six  months;  and  in 
the  same  time  13,000  of  New  York's  million  die 
in  their  beds !  My  flesh  crept,  my  hair  stood  on  end. 
"This  is  appalling!"  I  said.  "The  danger  isn't  in 
traveling  by  rail,  but  in  trusting  to  those  deadly 
beds.  I  will  never  sleep  in  a  bed  again." 

I  had  figured  on  considerably  less  than  one-half 
the  length  of  the  Erie  road.  It  was  plain  that  the 
entire  road  must  transport  at  least  eleven  or  twelve 
thousand  people  every  day.  There  are  many  short 
roads  running  out  of  Boston  that  do  fully  half  as 
much;  a  great  many  such  roads.  There  are  many 
roads  scattered  about  the  Union  that  do  a  prodigious 
passenger  business.  Therefore  it  was  fair  to  presume 
that  an  average  of  2,500  passengers  a  day  for  each 
road  in  the  country  would  be  about  correct.  There 
are  846  railway  lines  in  our  country,  and  846  times 
2,500  are  2,115,000.  So  the  railways  of  America 
move  more  than  two  millions  of  people  every  day; 
six  hundred  and  fifty  millions  of  people  a  year, 
without  counting  the  Sundays.  They  do  that,  too 
— there  is  no  question  about  it;  though  where  they 
get  the  raw  material  is  clear  beyond  the  jurisdiction 
of  my  arithmetic;  for  I  have  hunted  the  census 
through  and  through,  and  I  find  that  there  are  not 
that  many  people  in  the  United  States,  by  a  matter 


MARK    TWAIN 

of  six  hundred  and  ten  millions  at  the  very  least. 
They  must  use  some  of  the  same  people  over  again, 
likely. 

San  Francisco  is  one-eighth  as  populous  as  New 
York;  there  are  60  deaths  a  week  in  the  former  and 
500  a  week  in  the  latter — if  they  have  luck.  That 
is  3,120  deaths  a  year  in  San  Francisco,  and  eight 
times  as  many  in  New  York — say  about  25,000  or 
26,000.  The  health  of  the  two  places  is  the  same. 
So  we  will  let  it  stand  as  a  fair  presumption  that  this 
will  hold  good  all  over  the  country,  and  that  conse- 
quently 25,000  out  of  every  million  of  people  we 
have  must  die  every  year.  That  amounts  to  one- 
fortieth  of  our  total  population.  One  million  of  us, 
then,  die  annually.  Out  of  this  million  ten  or  twelve 
thousand  are  stabbed,  shot,  drowned,  hanged, 
poisoned,  or  meet  a  similarly  violent  death  in  some 
other  popular  way,  such  as  perishing  by  kerosene- 
lamp  and  hoop-skirt  conflagrations,  getting  buried  in 
coal-mines,  falling  off  house-tops,  breaking  through 
church  or  lecture-room  floors,  taking  patent  medi- 
cines, or  committing  suicide  in  other  forms.  The 
Erie  railroad  kills  from  23  to  46;  the  other  845  rail- 
roads kill  an  average  of  one-third  of  a  man  each;  and 
the  rest  of  that  million,  amounting  in  the  aggregate 
to  the  appalling  figure  of  987,631  corpses,  die  nat- 
urally in  their  beds! 

You  will  excuse  me  from  taking  any  more  chances 
on  those  beds.  The  railroads  are  good  enough  for  me. 

And  my  advice  to  all  people  is,  Don't  stay  at  home 
any  more  than  you  can  help ;  but  when  you  have  got, 
to  stay  at  home  a  while,  buy  a  package  of  those 
318 


DANGER    OF    LYING    IN    BED 

insurance  tickets  and  sit  up  nights.  You  cannot  be 
too  cautious. 

[One  can  see  now  why  I  answered  that  ticket-agent 
in  the  manner  recorded  at  the  top  of  this  sketch.] 

The  moral  of  this  composition  is,  that  thoughtless 
people  grumble  more  than  is  fair  about  railroad 
management  in  the  United  States.  When  we  con- 
sider that  every  day  and  night  of  the  year  full 
fourteen  thousand  railway-trains  of  various  kinds, 
freighted  with  life  and  armed  with  death,  go  thun- 
dering over  the  land,  the  marvel  is,  not  that  they  kill 
three  hundred  human  beings  in  a  twelvemonth,  but 
that  they  do  not  kill  three  hundred  times  three 
hundred! 


PORTRAIT    OF 
KING    WILLIAM    III 

I  NEVER  can  look  at  those  periodical  portraits 
in  The  Galaxy  magazine  without  feeling  a  wild, 
tempestuous  ambition  to  be  an  artist.  I  have  seen 
thousands  and  thousands  of  pictures  in  my  time — 
acres  of  them  here  and  leagues  of  them  in  the  galleries 
of  Europe — but  never  any  that  moved  me  as  these 
portraits  do. 

There  is  the  portrait  of  Monsignore  Capel  in  the 
November  number,  now  could  anything  be  sweeter 
than  that  ?  And  there  was  Bismarck's,  in  the  Octo- 
ber number;  who  can  look  at  that  without  being 
purer  and  stronger  and  nobler  for  it  ?  And  Thurlow 
Weed's  picture  in  the  September  number;  I  would 
not  have  died  without  seeing  that,  no,  not  for  any- 
thing this  world  can  give.  But  look  back  still  further 
and  recall  my  own  likeness  as  printed  in  the  August 
number ;  if  I  had  been  in  my  grave  a  thousand  years 
when  that  appeared,  I  would  have  got  up  and  visited 
the  artist. 

I  sleep  with  all  these  portraits  under  my  pillow 
every  night,  so  that  I  can  go  on  studying  them  as  soon 
as  the  day  dawns  in  the  morning.  I  know  them  all 
as  thoroughly  as  if *I  had  made  them  myself;  I  know 
every  line  and  mark  about  them.  Sometimes  when 
320 


PORTRAIT    OF    KING    WILLIAM    III 

company  are  present  I  shuffle  the  portraits  all  up  to- 
gether, and  then  pick  them  out  one  by  one  and  call 
their  names,  without  referring  to  the  printing  at  the 
bottom.  I  seldom  make  a  mistake — never,  when  I 
am  calm. 

I  have  had  the  portraits  framed  for  a  long  time, 
waiting  till  my  aunt  gets  everything  ready  for  hang- 
ing them  up  in  the  parlor.  But  first  one  thing  and 
then  another  interferes,  and  so  the  thing  is  delayed. 
Once  she  said  they  would  have  more  of  the  peculiar 
kind  of  light  they  needed  in  the  attic.  The  old  sim- 
pleton! it  is  as  dark  as  a  tomb  up  there.  But  she 
does  not  know  anything  about  art,  and  so  she  has  no 
reverence  for  it.  When  I  showed  her  my  "Map  of 
the  Fortifications  of  Paris,"  she  said  it  was  rubbish. 

Well,  from  nursing  those  portraits  so  long,  I  have 
come  at  last  to  have  a  perfect  infatuation  for  art.  I 
have  a  teacher  now,  and  my  enthusiasm  continually 
and  tumultuously  grows,  as  I  learn  to  use  with  more 
and  more  facility  the  pencil,  brush,  and  graver.  I 
am  studying  under  De  Mellville,  the  house  and  por- 
trait painter.  [His  name  was  Smith  when  he  lived 
West.]  He  does  any  kind  of  artist  work  a  body 
wants,  having  a  genius  that  is  universal,  like  Michael 
Angelo.  Resembles  that  great  artist,  in  fact.  The 
back  of  his  head  is  like  his,  and  he  wears  his  hat-brim 
tilted  down  on  his  nose  to  expose  it. 

I  have  been  studying  under  De  Mellville  several 
months  now.  The  first  month  I  painted  fences,  and 
gave  general  satisfaction.  The  next  month  I  white- 
washed a  barn.  The  third,  I  was  doing  tin  roofs; 
the  fourth,  common  signs;  the  fifth,  statuary  to 
321 


MARK    TWAIN 

stand  before  cigar  shops.  This  present  month  is 
only  the  sixth,  and  I  am  already  in  portraits! 

The  humble  offering  which  accompanies  these  re- 
marks— the  portrait  of  his  Majesty  William  III., 
King  of  Prussia — is  my  fifth  attempt  in  portraits,  and 
my  greatest  success.  It  has  received  unbounded 
praise  from  all  classes  of  the  community,  but  that 
which  gratifies  me  most  is  the  frequent  and  cordial 
verdict  that  it  resembles  the  Galaxy  portraits.  Those 
were  my  first  love,  my  earliest  admiration,  the  orig- 
inal -source  and  incentive  of  my  art-ambition.  What- 
ever I  am  in  Art  to-day,  I  owe  to  these  portraits.  I 
ask  no  credit  for  myself — I  deserve  none.  And  I 
never  take  any,  either.  Many  a  stranger  has  come 
to  my  exhibition  (  for  I  have  had  my  portrait  of  King 
William  on  exhibition  at  one  dollar  a  ticket),  and 
would  have  gone  away  blessing  me,  if  I  had  let  him, 
but  I  never  did.  I  always  stated  where  I  got  the 
idea. 

King  William  wears  large  bushy  side- whiskers,  and 
some  critics  have  thought  that  this  portrait  would  be 
more  complete  if  they  were  added.  But  it  was  not 
possible.  There  was  not  room  for  side- whiskers  and 
epaulettes  both,  and  so  I  let  the  whiskers  go,  and  put 
in  the  epaulettes,  for  the  sake  of  style.  That  thing 
on  his  hat  is  an  eagle.  The  Prussian  eagle — it  is  a 
national  emblem.  When  I  say  hat  I  mean  helmet; 
but  it  seems  impossible  to  make  a  picture  of  a  helmet 
that  a  body  can  have  confidence  in. 

I  wish  kind  friends  everywhere  would  aid  me  in 
my  endeavor  to  attract  a  little  attention  to  the  Galaxy 
portraits.  I  feel  persuaded  it  can  be  accomplished, 
322 


323 


MARK    TWAIN 

if  the  course  to  be  pursued  be  chosen  with  judgment. 
I  write  for  that  magazine  all  the  time,  and  so  do  many 
abler  men,  and  if  I  can  get  these  portraits  into  univer- 
sal favor,  it  is  all  I  ask;  the  reading-matter  will  take 
care  of  itself. 

COMMENDATIONS  OF  THE  PORTRAIT 
There  is  nothing  like  it  in  the  Vatican.  Pius  IX. 

It  has  none  of  that  vagueness,  that  dreamy  spirituality  about 
it,  which  many  of  the  first  critics  of  Arkansas  have  objected  to 
in  the  Murillo  school  of  Art.  RUSKIN. 

The  expression  is  very  interesting.  J.  W.  TITIAN. 

(Keeps  a  macaroni  store  in  Venice,  at  the  old  family  stand.) 
It  is  the  neatest  thing  in  still  life  I  have  seen  for  years. 

ROSA  BONHETTR. 

The  smile  may  be  almost  called  unique.  BISMARCK. 

I  never  saw  such  character  portrayed  in  a  pictured  face  before- 

DE  MELLVILLE. 

There  is  a  benignant  simplicity  about  the  execution  of  this 
work  which  warms  the  heart  toward  it  as  much,  full  as  much,  as 
it  fascinates  the  eye.  LANDSEER. 

One  cannot  see  it  without  longing  to  contemplate  the  artist. 

FREDERICK  WILLIAM. 

Send  me  the  entire  edition — together  with  the  plate  and  the 
original  portrait — and  name  your  own  price.  And — would  you 
like  to  come  over  and  stay  awhile  with  Napoleon  at  Wilhelm- 
shohe?  It  shall  not  cost  you  a  cent.  WILLIAM  III. 


DOES  THE  RACE  OF  MAN  LOVE 
A  LORD? 

Often  a  quite  ossified  remark  becomes  sanctified  by  use  and 
petrified  by  custom;  it  is  then  a  permanency,  its  term  of  activity 
a  geologic  period. 

THE  day  after  the  arrival  of  Prince  Henry  I  met 
an  English  friend,  and  he  rubbed  his  hands  and 
broke  out  with  a  remark  that  was  charged  to  the  brim 
with  joy — joy  that  was  evidently  a  pleasant  salve  to 
an  old  sore  place : 

"Many  a  time  I've  had  to  listen  without  retort  to 
an  old  saying  that  is  irritatingly  true,  and  until  now 
seemed  to  offer  no  chance  for  a  return  jibe:  'An 
Englishman  does  dearly  love  a  lord';  but  after  this 
I  shall  talk  back,  and  say  'How  about  the  Ameri- 
cans?'" 

It  is  a  curious  thing,  the  currency  that  an  idiotic 
saying  can  get.  The  man  that  first  says  it  thinks  he 
has  made  a  discovery.  The  man  he  says  it  to,  thinks 
the  same.  It  departs  on  its  travels,  is  received  every- 
where with  admiring  acceptance,  and  not  only  as  a 
piece  of  rare  and  acute  observation,  but  as  being 
exhaustively  true  and  profoundly  wise;  and  so  it 
presently  takes  its  place  in  the  world's  list  of  recog- 
nized and  established  wisdoms,  and  after  that  no 
325 


MARK     TWAIN 

one  thinks  of  examining  it  to  see  whether  it  is  really 
entitled  to  its  high  honors  or  not.  I  call  to  mind 
instances  of  this  in  two  well-established  proverbs, 
whose  dullness  is  not  surpassed  by  the  one  about  the 
Englishman  and  his  love  for  a  lord:  one  of  them 
records  the  American's  Adoration  of  the  Almighty 
Dollar,  the  other  the  American  millionaire-girl's  am- 
bition to  trade  cash  for  a  title,  with  a  husband 
thrown  in. 

It  isn't  merely  the  American  that  adores  the  Al- 
mighty Dollar,  it  is  the  human  race.  The  human 
race  has  always  adored  the  hatful  of  shells,  or  the 
bale  of  calico,  or  the  half-bushel  of  brass  rings,  or 
the  handful  of  steel  fish-hooks,  or  the  houseful  of 
black  wives,  or  the  zareba  full  of  cattle,  or  the  two- 
score  camels  and  asses,  or  the  factory,  or  the  farm, 
or  the  block  of  buildings,  or  the  railroad  bonds,  or 
the  bank  stock,  or  the  hoarded  cash,  or — anything 
that  stands  for  wealth  and  consideration  and  inde- 
pendence, and  can  secure  to  the  possessor  that  most 
precious  of  all  things,  another  man's  envy.  It  was 
a  dull  person  that  invented  the  idea  that  the  Ameri- 
can's devotion  to  the  dollar  is  more  strenuous  than 
another's. 

Rich  American  girls  do  buy  titles,  but  they  did  not 
invent  that  idea;  it  had  been  worn  threadbare  sev- 
eral hundred  centuries  before  America  was  discov- 
ered. European  girls  still  exploit  it  as  briskly  as 
ever;  and,  when  a  title  is  not  to  be  had  for  the 
money  in  hand,  they  buy  the  husband  without  it. 
They  must  put  up  the  "dot,"  or  there  is  no  trade. 
The  commercialization  of  brides  is  substantially 
326 


DOES    MAN    LOVE    A    LORD? 

universal,  except  in  America.  It  exists  with  us,  to 
some  little  extent,  but  in  no  degree  approaching  a 
custom. 

"The  Englishman  dearly  loves  a  lord." 
What  is  the  soul  and  source  of  his  love?    I  think 
the  thing  could  be  more  correctly  worded: 
"The  human  race  dearly  envies  a  lord." 
That  is  to  say,  it  envies  the  lord's  place.    Why? 
On  two  accounts,  I  think:   its  Power  and  its  Con- 
spicuousness. 

Where  Conspicuousness  carries  with  it  a  Power 
which,  by  the  light  of  our  own  observation  and  ex- 
perience, we  are  able  to  measure  and  comprehend,  I 
think  our  envy  of  the  possessor  is  as  deep  and  as 
passionate  as  is  that  of  any  other  nation.  No  one 
can  care  less  for  a  lord  than  the  backwoodsman,  who 
has  had  no  personal  contact  with  lords  and  has  sel- 
dom heard  them  spoken  of;  but  I  will  not  allow  that 
any  Englishman  has  a  profounder  envy  of  a  lord 
than  has  the  average  American  who  has  lived  long 
years  in  a  European  capital  and  fully  learned  how 
immense  is  the  position  the  lord  occupies. 

Of  any  ten  thousand  Americans  who  eagerly 
gather,  at  vast  inconvenience,  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
Prince  Henry,  all  but  a  couple  of  hundred  will  be 
there  out  of  an  immense  curiosity;  they  are  burning 
up  with  desire  to  see  a  personage  who  is  so  much 
talked  about.  They  envy  him;  but  it  is  Conspicu- 
ousness they  envy  mainly,  not  the  Power  that  is 
lodged  in  his  royal  quality  and  position,  for  they 
have  but  a  vague  and  spectral  knowledge  and  appre- 
ciation of  that;  through  their  environment  and  as- 
327 


MARK    TWAIN 

sociations  they  have  been  accustomed  to  regard 
such  things  lightly,  and  as  not  being  very  real ;  con- 
sequently, they  are  not  able  to  value  them  enough 
to  consumingly  envy  them. 

But,  whenever  an  American  (or  other  human 
being)  is  in  the  presence,  for  the  first  time,  of  a 
combination  of  great  Power  and  Conspicuousness 
which  he  thoroughly  understands  and  appreciates, 
his  eager  curiosity  and  pleasure  will  be  well-sodden 
with  that  other  passion — envy — whether  he  suspect 
it  or  not.  At  any  time,  on  any  day,  in  any  part  of 
America,  you  can  confer  a  happiness  upon  any  pass- 
ing stranger  by  calling  his  attention  to  any  other 
passing  stranger  and  saying: 

"Do  you  see  that  gentleman  going  along  there? 
It  is  Mr.  Rockfeller." 

Watch  his  eye.  It  is  a  combination  of  power  and 
conspicuousness  which  the  man  understands. 

When  we  understand  rank,  we  always  like  to  rub 
against  it.  When  a  man  is  conspicuous,  we  always 
want  to  see  him.  Also,  if  he  will  pay  us  an  attention 
we  will  manage  to  remember  it.  Also,  we  will  men- 
tion it  now  and  then,  casually;  sometimes  to  a  friend, 
or  if  a  friend  is  not  handy,  we  will  make  out  with  a 
stranger. 

Well,  then,  what  is  rank,  and  what  is  conspicuous- 
ness?  At  once  we  think  of  kings  and  aristocracies, 
and  of  world-wide  celebrities  in  soldierships,  the  arts, 
letters,  etc.,  and  we  stop  there.  But  that  is  a  mis- 
take. Rank  holds  its  court  and  receives  its  homage 
on  every  round  of  the  ladder,  from  the  emperor  down 
to  the  rat-catcher;  and  distinction,  also,  exists  on 
328 


DOES    MAN    LOVE    A    LORD? 

every  round  of  the  ladder,  and  commands  its  due  of 
deference  and  envy. 

To  worship  rank  and  distinction  is  the  dear  and 
valued  privilege  of  all  the  human  race,  and  it  is  free- 
ly and  joyfully  exercised  in  democracies  as  well  as 
•  in  monarchies — and  even,  to  some  extent,  among 
those   creatures   whom  we   impertinently  call   the 
1  Lower  Animals.     For  even  they  have  some  poor  lit- 
tle vanities  and  foibles,  though  in  this  matter  they 
-.are  paupers  as  compared  to  us. 

A  Chinese  Emperor  has  the  worship  of  his  four 
hundred  million  of  subjects,  but  the  rest  of  the  world 
is  indifferent  to  him.  A  Christian  Emperor  has  the 
worship  of  his  subjects  and  of  a  large  part  of  the 
Christian  world  outside  of  his  dominions;  but  he  is 
a  matter  of  indifference  to  all  China.  A  king,  class 
A,  has  an  extensive  worship;  a  king,  class  B,  has  a 
less  extensive  worship;  class  C,  class  D,  class  E  get 
na  steadily  diminishing  share  of  worship;  class  L 
(Sultan  of  Zanzibar),  class  P  (Sultan  of  Sulu,  and 
class  W  (half -king  of  Samoa),  get  no  worship  at  all 
outside  their  own  little  patch  of  sovereignty. 

Take  the  distinguished  people  along  down.  Each 
has  his  group  of  homage-payers.  In  the  navy,  there 
are  many  groups;  they  start  with  the  Secretary  and 
the  Admiral,  and  go  down  to  the  quartermaster — 
and  below;  for  there  will  be  groups  among  the  sailors, 
and  each  of  these  groups  will  have  a  tar  who  is  dis- 
tinguished for  his  battles,  or  his  strength,  or  his 
daring,  or  his  profanity,  and  is  admired  and  envied 
by  his  group.  The  same  with  the  army;  the  same 
with  the  literary  and  journalistic  craft,  the  publish- 
329 


MARK    TWAIN 

ing  craft;  the  cod-fishery  craft;  Standard  Oil;  U.  S. 
Steel;  the  class  A  hotel — and  the  rest  of  the  alphabet 
in  that  line ;  the  class  A  prize-fighter — and  the  rest  of 
the  alphabet  in  his  line — clear  down  to  the  lowest 
and  obscurest  six-boy  gang  of  little  gamins,  with  its 
one  boy  that  can  thrash  the  rest,  and  to  whom  he  is 
king  of  Samoa,  bottom  of  the  royal  race,  but  looked 
up  to  with  a  most  ardent  admiration  and  envy. 

There  is  something  pathetic,  and  funny,  and 
pretty,  about  this  human  race's  fondness  for  contact 
with  power  and  distinction,  and  for  the  reflected 
glory  it  gets  out  of  it.  The  king,  class  A,  is  happy 
in  the  state  banquet  and  the  military  show  which 
the  emperor  provides  for  him,  and  he  goes  home  and 
gathers  the  queen  and  the  princelings  around  him  in 
the  privacy  of  the  spare  room,  and  tells  them  all 
about  it,  and  says: 

"His  Imperial  Majesty  put  his  hand  on  my  shoul- 
der in  the  most  friendly  way — just  as  friendly  andt 
familiar,  oh,  you  can't  imagine  it! — and  everybody 
seeing  him  do  it;  charming,  perfectly  charming!" 

The  king,  class  G,  is  happy  in  the  cold  collation 
and  the  police  parade  provided  for  him  by  the  king, 
class  B,  and  goes  home  and  tells  the  family  all  about 
it,  and  says: 

"And  His  Majesty  took  me  into  his  own  private 
cabinet  for  a  smoke  and  a  chat,  and  there  we  sat 
just  as  sociable,  and  talking  away  and  laughing  and 
chatting,  just  the  same  as  if  we  had  been  born  in  the 
same  bunk;  and  all  the  servants  in  the  anteroom 
could  see  us  doing  it!  Oh,  it  was  too  lovely  for 
anything!" 

330 


DOES    MAN    LOVE    A    LORD? 

The  king,  class  Q,  is  happy  in  the  modest  enter- 
tainment furnished  him  by  the  king,  class  M,  and 
goes  home  and  tells  the  household  about  it,  and  is  as 
grateful  and  joyful  over  it  as  were  his  predecessors 
in  the  gaudier  attentions  that  had  fallen  to  their 
larger  lot. 

Emperors,  kings,  artisans,  peasants,  big  people, 
little  people — at  bottom  we  are  all  alike  and  all  the 
same;  all  just  alike  on  the  inside,  and  when  our 
clothes  are  off,  nobody  can  tell  which  of  us  is  which. 
We  are  unanimous  in  the  pride  we  take  in  good  and 
genuine  compliments  paid  us,  in  distinctions  con- 
ferred upon  us,  in  attentions  shown  us.  There  is  not 
one  of  us,  from  the  emperor  down,  but  is  made  like 
that.  Do  I  mean  attentions  shown  us  by  the  great? 
No,  I  mean  simply  flattering  attentions,  let  them 
come  whence  they  may.  We  despise  no  source  that 
can  pay  us  a  pleasing  attention — there  is  no  source 
that  is  humble  enough  for  that.  You  have  heard  a 
dear  little  girl  say  to  a  frowzy  and  disreputable  dog: 
"He  came  right  to  me  and  let  me  pat  him  on  the 
head,  and  he  wouldn't  let  the  others  touch  him!"  and 
you  have  seen  her  eyes  dance  with  pride  in  that  high 
distinction.  You  have  often  seen  that.  If  the  child 
were  a  princess,  would  that  random  dog  be  able  to 
confer  the  like  glory  upon  her  with  his  pretty  com- 
pliment? Yes;  and  even  in  her  mature  life  and 
seated  upon  a  throne,  she  would  still  remember  it, 
still  recall  it,  still  speak  of  it  with  frank  satisfaction. 
That  charming  and  lovable  German  princess  and 
poet,  Carmen  Sylva,  Queen  of  Roumania,  remembers 
yet  that  the  flowers  of  the  woods  and  fields  "talked 


MARK    TWAIN 

to  her"  when  she  was  a  girl,  and  she  sets  it  down  in 
her  latest  book ;  and  that  the  squirrels  conferred  upon 
her  and  her  father  the  valued  compliment  of  not 
being  afraid  of  them;  and  "once  one  of  them,  holding 
a  nut  between  its  sharp  little  teeth,  ran  right  up 
against  my  father" — it  has  the  very  note  of  "He 
came  right  to  me  and  let  me  pat  him  on  the  head" 
— "and  when  it  saw  itself  reflected  in  his  boot  it  was 
very  much  surprised,  and  stopped  for  a  long  time  to 
contemplate  itself  in  the  polished  leather" — then 
it  went  its  way.  And  the  birds !  she  still  remembers 
with  pride  that  "they  came  boldly  into  my  room," 
when  she  had  neglected  her  "duty"  and  put  no  food 
on  the  window-sill  for  them;  she  knew  all  the  wild 
birds,  and  forgets  the  royal  crown  on  her  head  to 
remember  with  pride  that  they  knew  her;  also  that 
the  wasp  and  the  bee  were  personal  friends  of  hers, 
and  never  forgot  that  gracious  relationship  to  her 
injury:  "never  have  I  been  stung  by  a  wasp  or  a 
bee."  And  here  is  that  proud  note  again  that  sings 
in  that  little  child's  elation  in  being  singled  out, 
among  all  the  company  of  children,  for  the  random 
dog's  honor-conferring  attentions.  "Even  in  the 
very  worst  summer  for  wasps,  when,  in  lunching 
out  of  doors,  our  table  was  covered  with  them  and 
every  one  else  was  stung,  they  never  hurt  me." 

When  a  queen  whose  qualities  of  mind  and  heart 
and  character  are  able  to  add  distinction  to  so  distin- 
guished a  place  as  a  throne,  remembers  with  grateful 
exultation,  after  thirty  years,  honors  and  distinctions 
conferred  upon  her  by  the  humble,  wild  creatures  of 
the  forest,  we  are  helped  to  realize  that  complimen- 
332 


DOES    MAN    LOVE    A    LORD? 

tary  attentions,  homage,  distinctions,  are  of  no  caste, 
but  are  above  all  caste — that  they  are  a  nobility- 
conferring  power  apart. 

We  all  like  these  things.  When  the  gate-guard  at 
the  railway-station  passes  me  through  unchallenged 
and  examines  other  people's  tickets,  I  feel  as  the  king, 
class  A,  felt  when  the  emperor  put  the  imperial  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  "everybody  seeing  him  do  it";  and 
as  the  child  felt  when  the  random  dog  allowed  her 
to  pat  his  head  and  ostracized  the  others;  and  as  the 
princess  felt  when  the  wasps  spared  her  and  stung 
the  rest ;  and  I  felt  just  so,  four  years  ago  in  Vienna 
(and  remember  it  yet),  when  the  helmeted  police 
shut  me  off,  with  fifty  others,  from  a  street  which 
the  Emperor  was  to  pass  through,  and  the  captain 
of  the  squad  turned  and  saw  the  situation  and  said 
indignantly  to  that  guard: 

"Can't  you  see  it  is  the  Heir  Mark  Twain?  Let 
him  through!" 

It  was  four  years  ago;  but  it  will  be  four  hundred 
before  I  forget  the  wind  of  self-complacency  that 
rose  in  me,  and  strained  my  buttons  when  I  marked 
the  deference  for  me  evoked  in  the  faces  of  my 
fellow-rabble,  and  noted,  mingled  with  it,  a  puzzled 
and  resentful  expression  which  said,  as  plainly  as 
speech  could  have  worded  it:  "And  who  in  the 
nation  is  the  Heir  Mark  Twain  urn  Gotteswillen?" 

How  many  times  in  your  life  have  you  heard  this 
boastful  remark: 

"I  stood  as  close  to  him  as  I  am  to  you;  I  could 
have  put  out  my  hand  and  touched  him." 

We  have  all  heard  it  many  and  many  a  time.  It 
333 


MARK    TWAIN 

was  a  proud  distinction  to  be  able  to  say  those  words. 
It  brought  envy  to  the  speaker,  a  kind  of  glory ;  and 
he  basked  in  it  and  was  happy  through  all  his  veins. 
And  who  was  it  he  stood  so  close  to?  The  answer 
would  cover  all  the  grades.  Sometimes  it  was  a 
king;  sometimes  it  was  a  renowned  highwayman; 
sometimes  it  was  an  unknown  man  killed  in  an 
extraordinary  way  and  made  suddenly  famous  by 
it;  always  it  was  a  person  who  was  for  the  moment 
the  subject  of  public  interest — the  public  interest  of 
a  nation,  maybe  only  the  public  interest  of  a  village. 
"I  was  there,  and  I  saw  it  myself."  That  is  a 
common  and  envy-compelling  remark.  It  can  refer 
to  a  battle;  to  a  hanging;  to  a  coronation,  to  the 
killing  of  Jumbo  by  the  railway-train;  to  the  arrival 
of  Jenny  Lind  at  the  Battery;  to  the  meeting  of  the 
President  and  Prince  Henry;  to  the  chase  of  a  mur- 
derous maniac ;  to  the  disaster  in  the  tunnel ;  to  the 
explosion  in  the  subway ;  to  a  remarkable  dog-fight ; 
to  a  village  church  struck  by  lightning.  It  will  be 
said,  more  or  less  casually,  by  everybody  in  America 
who  has  seen  Prince  Henry  do  anything,  or  try  to. 
The  man  who  was  absent  and  didn't  see  him  do  any- 
thing, will  scoff.  It  is  his  privilege ;  and  he  can  make 
capital  out  of  it,  too;  he  will  seem,  even  to  himself, 
to  be  different  from  other  Americans,  and  better. 
As  his  opinion  of  his  superior  Americanism  grows, 
and  swells,  and  concentrates  and  coagulates,  he  will 
go  further  and  try  to  belittle  the  distinction  of  those 
that  saw  the  Prince  do  things,  and  will  spoil  their 
pleasure  in  it  if  he  can.  My  life  has  been  embittered 
by  that  kind  of  persons.  If  you  are  able  to  tell  of  a 
334 


DOES    MAN    LOVE    A    LORD? 

special  distinction  that  has  fallen  to  your  lot,  it 
gravels  them;  they  cannot  bear  it;  and  they  try  to 
make  believe  that  the  thing  you  took  for  a  special 
distinction  was  nothing  of  the  kind  and  was  meant 
in  quite  another  way.  Once  I  was  received  in  pri- 
vate audience  by  an  emperor.  Last  week  I  was  tell- 
ing a  jealous  person  about  it,  and  I  could  see  him 
wince  under  it,  see  it  bite,  see  him  suffer.  I  revealed 
the  whole  episode  to  him  with  considerable  elabora- 
tion and  nice  attention  to  detail.  When  I  was 
through,  he  asked  me  what  had  impressed  me  most. 
I  said: 

"His  Majesty's  delicacy.  They  told  me  to  be 
sure  and  back  out  from  the  presence,  and  find  the 
door-knob  as  best  I  could;  it  was  not  allowable  to 
face  around.  Now  the  Emperor  knew  it  would  be 
a  difficult  ordeal  for  me,  because  of  lack  of  practice; 
and  so,  when  it  was  time  to  part,  he  turned,  with 
exceeding  delicacy,  and  pretended  to  fumble  with 
things  on  his  desk,  so  that  I  could  get  out  in  my  own 
way,  without  his  seeing  me." 

It  went  home!  It  was  vitriol!  I  saw  the  envy 
and  disgruntlement  rise  in  the  man's  face;  he 
couldn't  keep  it  down.  I  saw  him  trying  to  fix  up 
something  in  his  mind  to  take  the  bloom  off  that  dis- 
tinction. I  enjoyed  that,  for  I  judged  that  he  had 
his  work  cut  out  for  him.  He  struggled  along  in- 
wardly for  quite  a  while;  then  he  said,  with  the 
manner  of  a  person  who  has  to  say  something  and 
hasn't  anything  relevant  to  say: 

"You  said  he  had  a    handful  of  special-brand 
cigars  lying  on  the  table?" 
335 


MARK    TWAIN 

"Yes;  I  never  saw  anything  to  match  them." 

I  had  him  again.  He  had  to  fumble  around  in  his 
mind  as  much  as  another  minute  before  he  could 
play;  then  he  said  in  as  mean  a  way  as  I  ever  heard 
a  person  say  anything: 

"He  could  have  been  counting  the  cigars,  you 
know." 

I  cannot  endure  a  man  like  that.  It  is  nothing  to 
him  how  unkind  he  is,  so  long  as  he  takes  the  bloom 
off.  It  is  all  he  cares  for. 

"An  Englishman  (or  other  human  being)  does 
dearly  love  a  lord,"  (or  other  conspicuous  person). 
It  includes  us  all.  We  love  to  be  noticed  by  the 
conspicuous  person;  we  love  to  be  associated  with 
such,  or  with  a  conspicuous  event,  even  in  a  seventh- 
rate  fashion,  even  in  a  forty-seventh,  if  we  cannot 
do  better.  This  accounts  for  some  of  our  curious 
tastes  in  mementos.  It  accounts  for  the  large  private 
trade  in  the  Prince  of  Wales's  hair,  which  chamber- 
maids were  able  to  drive  in  that  article  of  commerce 
when  the  Prince  made  the  tour  of  the  world  in  the 
long  ago — hair  which  probably  did  not  always  come 
from  his  brush,  since  enough  of  it  was  marketed  to 
refurnish  a  bald  comet ;  it  accounts  for  the  fact  that 
the  rope  which  lynches  a  negro  in  the  presence  of 
ten  thousand  Christian  spectators  is  salable  five 
minutes  later  at  two  dollars  an  inch;  it  accounts  for 
the  mournful  fact  that  a  royal  personage  does  not 
venture  to  wear  buttons  on  his  coat  in  public. 

We  do  love  a  lord — and  by  that  term  I  mean  any 
person  whose  situation  is  higher  than  our  own.  The 
lord  of  a  group,  for  instance:  a  group  of  peers,  a 
336 


DOES    MAN    LOVE    A    LORD? 

group  of  millionaires,  a  group  of  hoodlums,  a  group 
of  sailors,  a  group  of  newsboys,  a  group  of  saloon 
politicians,  a  group  of  college  girls.  No  royal  person 
has  ever  been  the  object  of  a  more  delirious  loyalty 
and  slavish  adoration  than  is  paid  by  the  vast  Tam- 
many herd  to  its  squalid  idol  of  Wantage.  There  is 
not  a  bifucated  animal  in  that  menagerie  that  would 
not  be  proud  to  appear  in  a  newspaper  picture  in  his 
company.  At  the  same  time,  there  are  some  in  that 
organization  who  would  scoff  at  the  people  who  have 
been  daily  pictured  in  company  with  Prince  Henry, 
and  would  say  vigorously  that  tJiey  would  not  consent 
to  be  photographed  with  him — a  statement  which 
would  not  be  true  in  any  instance.  There  are  hun- 
dreds of  people  in  America  who  would  frankly  say  to 
you  that  they  would  not  be  proud  to  be  photographed 
in  a  group  with  the  Prince,  if  invited;  and  some  of 
these  unthinking  people  would  believe  it  when  they 
said  it ;  yet  in  no  instance  would  it  be  true.  We  have  a 
large  population,  but  we  have  not  a  large  enough  one, 
by  several  millions,  to  furnish  that  man.  He  has  not 
yet  been  begotten,  and  in  fact  he  is  not  begettable. 

You  may  take  any  of  the  printed  groups,  and 
there  isn't  a  person  in  it  who  isn't  visibly  glad  to  be 
there;  there  isn't  a  person  in  the  dim  background  who 
isn't  visibly  trying  to  be  vivid;  if  it  is  a  crowd  of  ten 
thousand — ten  thousand  proud,  untamed  democrats, 
horny-handed  sons  of  toil  and  of  politics,  and  fliers 
of  the  eagle — there  isn't  one  who  isn't  conscious  of 
the  camera,  there  isn't  one  who  is  trying  to  keep  out 
of  range,  there  isn't  one  who  isn't  plainly  meditating 
a  purchase  of  the  paper  in  the  morning,  with  the 
337 


MARK    TWAIN 

intention  of  hunting  himself  out  in  the  picture  and 
of  framing  and  keeping  it  if  he  shall  find  so  much  of 
his  person  in  it  as  his  starboard  ear. 

We  all  love  to  get  some  of  the  drippings  of  Con- 
spicuousness,  and  we  will  put  up  with  a  single,  hum- 
ble drip,  if  we  can't  get  any  more.  We  may  pretend 
otherwise,  in  conversation;  but  we  can't  pretend  it 
to  ourselves  privately — and  we  don't.  We  do  confess 
in  public  that  we  are  the  noblest  work  of  God,  being 
moved  to  it  by  long  habit,  and  teaching,  and 
superstition;  but  deep  down  in  the  secret  places  of 
our  souls  we  recognize  that,  if  we  are  the  noblest 
work,  the  less  said  about  it  the  better. 

We  of  the  North  poke  fun  at  the  South  for  its 
fondness  for  titles — a  fondness  for  titles  pure  and 
simple,  regardless  of  whether  they  are  genuine  or 
pinchbeck.  We  forget  that  whatever  a  Southerner 
likes  the  rest  of  the  Tinman  race  likes,  and  that  there 
is  no  law  of  predilection  lodged  in  one  people  that  is 
absent  from  another  people.  There  is  no  variety  in 
the  human  race.  We  are  all  children,  all  children  of 
the  one  Adam,  and  we  love  toys.  We  can  soon 
acquire  that  Southern  disease  if  some  one  will  give 
it  a  start.  It  already  has  a  start,  in  fact.  I  have 
been  personally  acquainted  with  over  eighty-four 
thousand  persons  who,  at  one  time  or  another  in 
their  lives,  have  served  for  a  year  or  two  on  the  staffs 
of  our  multitudinous  governors,  and  through  that 
fatality  have  been  generals  temporarily,  and  colonels 
temporarily,  and  judge-advocates  temporarily;  but 
I  have  known  only  nine  among  them  who  could  be 
hired  to  let  the  title  go  when  it  ceased  to  be  legiti- 
338 


DOES    MAN    LOVE    A    LORD? 

mate.  I  know  thousands  and  thousands  of  governors 
who  ceased  to  be  governors  away  back  in  the  last 
century;  but  I  am  acquainted  with  only  three  who 
would  answer  your  letter  if  you  failed  to  call  them 
"Governor"  in  it.  I  know  acres  and  acres  of  men 
who  have  done  time  in  a  legislature  in  prehistoric 
days,  but  among  them  is  not  half  an  acre  whose 
resentment  you  would  not  raise  if  you  addressed 
them  as  "Mr."  instead  of  "Hon."  The  first  thing  a 
legislature  does  is  to  convene  in  an  impressive  legis- 
lative attitude,  and  get  itself  photographed.  Each 
member  frames  his  copy  and  takes  it  to  the  woods 
and  hangs  it  up  in  the  most  aggressively  conspicuous 
place  in  his  house;  and  if  you  visit  the  house  and  fail 
to  inquire  what  that  accumulation  is,  the  conver- 
sation will  be  brought  around  to  it  by  that  afore- 
time legislator,  and  he  will  show  you  a  figure  in  it 
which  in  the  course  of  years  he  has  almost  obliter- 
ated with  the  smut  of  his  finger-marks,  and  say  with 
a  solemn  joy,  "It's  me!" 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  country  Congressman  enter 
the  hotel  breakfast-room  in  Washington  with  his  let- 
ters?— and  sit  at  his  table  and  let  on  to  read  them? 
— and  wrinkle  his  brows  and  frown  statesman-like? 
— keeping  a  furtive  watch-out  over  his  glasses  all 
the  while  to  see  if  he  is  being  observed  and  admired? 
— those  same  old  letters  which  he  fetches  in  every 
morning?  Have  you  seen  it?  Have  you  seen  him 
show  off?  It  is  the  sight  of  the  national  capital. 
Except  one ;  a  pathetic  one.  That  is  the  ex-Congress- 
man :  the  poor  fellow  whose  life  has  been  ruined  by  a 
two-year  taste  of  glory  and  of  fictitious  consequence: 
339 


MARK    TWAIN 

who  has  been  superseded,  and  ought  to  take  his 
heartbreak  home  and  hide  it,  but  cannot  tear  him- 
self away  from  the  scene  of  his  lost  little  grandeur; 
and  so  he  lingers,  and  still  lingers,  year  after  year, 
unconsidered,  sometimes  snubbed,  ashamed  of  his 
fallen  estate,  and  valiantly  trying  to  look  otherwise; 
dreary  and  depressed,  but  counterfeiting  breeziness 
and  gaiety,  hailing  with  chummy  familiarity,  which 
is  not  always  welcomed,  the  more-fortunates  who  are 
still  in  place  and  were  once  his  mates.  Have  you 
seen  him?  He  clings  piteously  to  the  one  little  shred 
that  is  left  of  his  departed  distinction — the  "privilege 
of  the  floor";  and  works  it  hard  and  gets  what  he 
can  out  of  it.  That  is  the  saddest  figure  I  know  of. 

Yes,  we  do  so  love  our  little  distinctions!  And 
then  we  loftily  scoff  at  a  Prince  for  enjoying  his 
larger  ones;  forgetting  that  if  we  only  had  his  chance 
— ah!  "Senator"  is  not  a  legitimate  title.  A 
Senator  has  no  more  right  to  be  addressed  by  it  than 
have  you  or  I ;  but,  in  the  several  state  capitals  and 
in  Washington,  there  are  five  thousand  Senators 
who  take  very  kindly  to  that  fiction,  and  who  purr 
gratefully  when  you  call  them  by  it — which  you  may 
do  quite  unrebuked.  Then  those  same  Senators 
smile  at  the  self -constructed  majors  and  generals  and 
judges  of  the  South! 

Indeed,  we  do  love  our  distinctions,  get  them  how 
we  may.  And  we  work  them  for  all  they  are  worth. 
In  prayer  we  call  ourselves  "worms  of  the  dust,"  but 
it  is  only  on  a  sort  of  tacit  understanding  that  the 
remark  shall  not  be  taken  at  par.  We — worms  of 
the  dust!  Oh,  no,  we  are  not  that.  Except  in  fact; 
340 


DOES    MAN    LOVE    A    LORD? 

and  we  do  not  deal  much  in  fact  when  we  are  con- 
templating ourselves. 

As  a  race,  we  do  certainly  love  a  lord — let  him  be 
Croker,  or  a  duke,  or  a  prize-fighter,  or  whatever 
other  personage  shall  chance  to  be  the  head  of  our 
group.  Many  years  ago,  I  saw  a  greasy  youth  in 
overalls  standing  by  the  Herald  office,  with  an  ex- 
pectant look  in  his  face.  Soon  a  large  man  passed 
out,  and  gave  him  a  pat  on  the  shoulder.  That  was 
what  the  boy  was  waiting  for — the  large  man's  no- 
tice. The  pat  made  him  proud  and  happy,  and  the 
exultation  inside  of  him  shone  out  through  his  eyes; 
and  his  mates  were  there  to  see  the  pat  and  envy 
it  and  wish  they  could  have  that  glory.  The  boy 
belonged  down  cellar  in  the  press-room,  the  large 
man  was  king  of  the  upper  floors,  foreman  of  the 
composing-room.  The  light  in  the  boy's  face  was 
worship,  the  foreman  was  his  lord,  head  of  his  group. 
The  pat  was  an  accolade.  It  was  as  precious  to  the 
boy  as  it  would  have  been  if  he  had  been  an  aristo- 
crat's son  and  the  accolade  had  been  delivered  by 
his  sovereign  with  a  sword.  The  quintessence  of 
the  honor  was  all  there;  there  was  no  difference  in 
values;  in  truth  there  was  no  difference  present  ex- 
cept an  artificial  one — clothes. 

All  the  human  race  loves  a  lord — that  is,  it  loves 
to  look  upon  or  be  noticed  by  the  possessor  of  Power 
or  Conspicuousness;  and  sometimes  animals,  born 
to  better  things  and  higher  ideals,  descend  to  man's 
level  in  this  matter.  In  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  I 
have  seen  a  cat  that  was  so  vain  of  being  the  personal 
friend  of  an  elephant  that  I  was  ashamed  of  her. 


EXTRACTS   FROM  ADAM'S  DIARY 

]l /TON DAY. — This  new  creature  with  the  long 
•*  T-L  hair  is  a  good  deal  in  the  way.  It  is  always 
hanging  around  and  following  me  about.  I  don't 
like  this;  I  am  not  used  to  company.  I  wish  it  would 
stay  with  the  other  animals.  .  .  .  Cloudy  to-day, 
wind  in  the  east;  think  we  shall  have  rain.  .  .  . 
Wei  Where  did  I  get  that  word? — I  remember 
now — the  new  creature  uses  it. 

Tuesday. — Been  examining  the  great  waterfall.  It 
is  the  finest  thing  on  the  estate,  I  think.  The  new 
creature  calls  it  Niagara  Falls — why,  I  am  sure 
I  do  not  know.  Says  it  looks  like  Niagara  Falls. 
That  is  not  a  reason,  it  is  mere  waywardness  and 
imbecility.  I  get  no  chance  to  name  anything  my- 
self. The  new  creature  names  everything  that  comes 
along,  before  I  can  get  in  a  protest.  And  always 
that  same  pretext  is  offered — it  looks  like  the  thing. 
There  is  the  dodo,  for  instance.  Says  the  moment 
one  looks  at  it  one  sees  at  a  glance  that  it  "looks 
like  a  dodo."  It  will  have  to  keep  that  name,  no 
doubt.  It  wearies  me  to  fret  about  it,  and  it  does 
no  good,  anyway.  Dodo!  It  looks  no  more  like  a 
dodo  than  I  do. 

Wednesday. — Built  me  a  shelter  against  the  rain, 
but  could  not  have  it  to  myself  in  peace.  The  new 
creature  intruded.  When  I  tried  to  put  it  out  it  shed 

342 


ADA;M'S    DIARY 

water  out  of  the  holes  it  looks  with,  and  wiped  it 
away  with  the  back  of  its  paws,  and  made  a  noise 
such  as  some  of  the  other  animals  make  when  they 
are  in  distress.  I  wish  it  would  not  talk;  it  is 
always  talking.  That  sounds  like  a  cheap  fling  at 
the  poor  creature,  a  slur;  but  I  do  not  mean  it  so. 
I  have  never  heard  the  human  voice  before,  and  any 
new  and  strange  sound  intruding  itself  here  upon  the 
solemn  hush  of  these  dreaming  solitudes  offends  my 
ear  and  seems  a  false  note.  And  this  new  sound  is  so 
close  to  me;  it  is  right  at  my  shoulder,  right  at 
my  ear,  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other,  and 
I  am  used  only  to  sounds  that  are  more  or  less  dis- 
tant from  me. 

Friday. — The  naming  goes  recklessly  on,  in  spite 
of  anything  I  can  do.  I  had  a  very  good  name  for 
the  estate,  and  it  was  musical  and  pretty — GARDEN 
OP  EDEN.  Privately,  I  continue  to  call  it  that,  but 
not  any  longer  publicly.  The  new  creature  says  it  is 
all  woods  and  rocks  and  scenery,  and  therefore  has 
no  resemblance  to  a  garden.  Says  it  looks  like  a 
park,  and  does  not  look  like  anything  but  a  park. 
Consequently,  without  consulting  me,  it  has  been 
new-named — NIAGARA  FALLS  PARK.  This  is  suffi- 
ciently high-handed,  it  seems  to  me.  And  already 
there  is  a  sign  up: 

KEEP  OFF 

THE   GRASS 

My  life  is  not  as  happy  as  it  was. 
Saturday. — The  new  creature  eats  too  much  fruit. 
We  are  going:  to  run  short,   most  likely.     "We" 
343 


MARK    TWAIN 

again — that  is  its  word;  •  mine,  too,  now,  from 
ing  it  so  much.  Good  deal  of  fog  this  morning. 
I  do  not  go  out  in  the  fog  myself.  The  new  creature 
does.  It  goes  out  in  all  weathers,  and  stumps  right 
in  with  its  muddy  feet.  And  talks.  It  used  to  be 
so  pleasant  and  quiet  here. 

Sunday. — Pulled  through.  This  day  is  getting 
to  be  more  and  more  trying.  It  was  selected  and 
set  apart  last  November  as  a  day  of  rest.  I  had 
already  six  of  them  per  week  before.  This  morning 
found  the  new  creature  trying  to  clod  apples  out  of 
that  forbidden  tree. 

Monday. — The  new  creature  says  its  name  is 
Eve.  That  is  all  right,  I  have  no  objections.  Says 
it  is  to  call  it  by,  when  I  want  it  to  come.  I  said  it 
was  superfluous,  then.  The  word  evidently  raised 
me  in  its  respect;  and  indeed  it  is  a  large,  good 
word  and  will  bear  repetition.  It  says  it  is  not  an 
It,  it  is  a  She.  This  is  probably  doubtful;  yet  it  is 
all  one  to  me;  what  she  is  were  nothing  to  me  if  she 
would  but  go  by  herself  and  not  talk. 

Tuesday. — She  has  littered  the  whole  estate  with 
execrable  names  and  offensive  signs: 

THIS  WAY  TO  THE  WHIRLPOOL 

THIS  WAY  TO  GOAT  ISLAND 
CAVE  OF  THE  WINDS  THIS  WAY 

She  says  this  park  would  make  a  tidy  summer  re- 
sort if  there  was  any  custom  for  it.  Summer  resort — 
another  invention  of  hers — just  words,  without  any 
meaning.  What  is  a  summer  resort?  But  it  is  best 
not  to  ask  her,  she  has  such  a  rage  for  explaining. 
344 


ADAM'S    DIARY 

Friday.— She  has  taken  to  beseeching  me  to  stop 
going  over  the  Falls.  What  harm  does  it  do?  Says 
it  makes  her  shudder.  I  wonder  why;  I  have  always 
done  it — always  liked  the  plunge,  and  coolness.  I 
supposed  it  was  what  the  Falls  were  for.  They  have 
no  other  use  that  I  can  see,  and  they  must  have  been 
made  for  somthing.  She  says  they  were  only  made 
for  scenery — like  the  rhinoceros  and  the  mastodon. 

I  went  over  the  Falls  in  a  barrel — not  satisfactory 
to  her.  Went  over  in  a  tub — still  not  satisfactory. 
Swam  the  Whirlpool  and  the  Rapids  in  a  fig-leaf 
suit.  It  got  much  damaged.  Hence,  tedious  com- 
plaints about  my  extravagance.  I  am  too  much 
hampered  here.  What  I  need  is  change  of  scene. 

Saturday. — I  escaped  last  Tuesday  night,  and 
traveled  two  days,  and  built  me  another  shelter  in  a 
secluded  place,  and  obliterated  my  tracks  as  well  as  I 
could,  but  she  hunted  me  out  by  means  of  a  beast 
which  she  has  tamed  and  calls  a  wolf,  and  came 
making  that  pitiful  noise  again,  and  shedding  that 
water  out  of  the  places  she  looks  with.  I  was  obliged 
to  return  with  her,  but  will  presently  emigrate 
again  when  occasion  offers.  She  engages  her- 
self in  many  foolish  things;  among  others,  to  study 
out  why  the  animals  called  lions  and  tigers  live  on 
grass  and  flowers,  when,  as  she  says,  the  sort  of  teeth 
they  wear  would  indicate  that  they  were  intended  to 
eat  each  other.  This  is  foolish,  because  to  do  that 
would  be  to  kill  each  other,  and  that  would  introduce 
what,  as  I  understand  it,  is  called  "death";  and 
death,  as  I  have  been  told,  has  not  yet  entered  the 
Park.  Which  is  a  pity,  on  some  accounts. 
345 


MARK    TWAIN 

Sunaay. — Pulled  through. 

Monday. — I  believe  I  see  what  the  week  is  for: 
it  is  to  give  time  to  rest  up  from  the  weariness  of 
Sunday.  It  seems  a  good  idea.  .  .  .  She  has  been 
climbing  that  tree  again.  Clodded  her  out  of  it. 
She  said  nobody  was  looking.  Seems  to  consider 
that  a  sufficient  justification  for  chancing  any  dan- 
gerous thing.  Told  her  that.  The  word  justification 
moved  her  admiration — and  envy,  too,  I  thought. 
It  is  a  good  word. 

Tuesday. — She  told  me  she  was  made  out  of  a 
rib  taken  from  my  body.  This  is  at  least  doubtful, 
if  not  more  than  that.  I  have  not  missed  any  rib. 
.  .  .  She  is  in  much  trouble  about  the  buzzard; 
says  grass  does  not  agree  with  it;  is  afraid  she  can't 
raise  it;  thinks  it  was  intended  to  live  on  decayed 
flesh.  The  buzzard  must  get  along  the  best  it  can 
with  what  it  is  provided.  We  cannot  overturn  the 
whole  scheme  to  accommodate  the  buzzard. 

Saturday. — She  fell  in  the  pond  yesterday  when 
she  was  looking  at  herself  in  it,  which  she  is  always 
doing.  She  nearly  strangled,  and  said  it  was  most 
uncomfortable.  This  made  her  sorry  for  the  crea- 
tures which  live  in  there,  which  she  calls  fish,  for 
she  continues  to  fasten  names  on  to  things  that  don't 
need  them  and  don't  come  when  they  are  called  by 
them,  which  is  a  matter  of  no  consequence  to  her, 
she  is  such  a  numskull,  anyway;  so  she  got  a  lot  of 
them  out  and  brought  them  in  last  night  and  put 
them  in  my  bed  to  keep  warm,  but  I  have  noticed 
them  now  and  then  all  day  and  I  don't  see  that  they 
are  any  happier  there  then  they  were  before,  only 
346 


ADAM'S    DIARY 

quieter.  When  night  comes  I  shall  throw  them 
outdoors.  I  will  not  sleep  with  them  again,  for  I 
find  them  clammy  and  unpleasant  to  lie  among  when 
a  person  hasn't  anything  on. 

Sunday. — Pulled  through. 

Tuesday. — She  has  taken  up  with  a  snake  now. 
The  other  animals  are  glad,  for  she  was  always  ex- 
perimenting with  them  and  bothering  them;  and  I 
am  glad  because  the  snake  talks,  and  this  enables  me 
to  get  a  rest. 

Friday. — She  says  the  snake  advises  her  to  try 
the  fruit  of  that  tree,  and  says  the  result  will  be  a 
great  and  fine  and  noble  education.  I  told  her  there 
would  be  another  result,  too — it  would  introduce 
death  into  the  world.  That  was  a  mistake — it  had 
been  better  to  keep  the  remark  to  myself;  it  only 
gave  her  an  idea — she  could  save  the  sick  buzzard, 
and  furnish  fresh  meat  to  the  despondent  lions  and 
tigers.  I  advised  her  to  keep  away  from  the  tree. 
She  said  she  wouldn't.  I  foresee  trouble.  Will 
emigrate. 

Wednesday. — I  have  had  a  variegated  time.  I 
escaped  last  night,  and  rode  a  horse  all  night  as  fast 
as  he  could  go,  hoping  to  get  clear  out  of  the  Park 
and  hide  in  some  other  country  before  the  trouble 
should  begin ;  but  it  was  not  to  be.  About  an  hour 
after  sun-up,  as  I  was  riding  through  a  flowery  plain 
where  thousands  of  animals  were  grazing,  slumber- 
ing, or  playing  with  each  other,  according  to  their 
wont,  all  of  a  sudden  they  broke  into  a  tempest  of 
frightful  noises,  and  in  one  moment  the  plain  was  a 
frantic  commotion  and  every  beast  was  destroying 
347 


MARK    TWAIN 

its  neighbor.  I  knew  what  it  meant — Eve  had 
eaten  that  fruit,  and  death  was  come  into  the  world. 
.  .  .  The  tigers  ate  my  horse,  paying  no  attention 
when  I  ordered  them  to  desist,  and  they  would  have 
eaten  me  if  I  had  stayed — which  I  didn't,  but  went 
away  in  much  haste.  ...  I  found  this  place,  out- 
side the  Park,  and  was  fairly  comfortable  for  a  few 
days,  but  she  has  found  me  out.  Found  me  out, 
and  has  named  the  place  Tonawanda — says  it  looks 
like  that.  In  fact  I  was  not  sorry  she  came,  for 
there  are  but  meager  pickings  here,  and  she  brought 
some  of  those  apples.  I  was  obliged  to  eat  them,  I 
was  so  hungry.  It  was  against  my  principles,  but  I 
find  that  principles  have  no  real  force  except  when 
one  is  well  fed.  .  .  .  She  came  curtained  in  boughs 
and  bunches  of  leaves,  and  when  I  asked  her  what 
she  meant  by  such  nonsense,  and  snatched  them 
away  and  threw  them  down,  she  tittered  and  blushed. 
I  had  never  seen  a  person  titter  and  blush  before, 
and  to  me  it  seemed  unbecoming  and  idiotic.  She 
said  I  would  soon  know  how  it  was  myself.  This 
was  correct.  Hungry  as  I  was,  I  laid  down  the 
apple  half -eaten — certainly  the  best  one  I  ever  saw, 
considering  the  lateness  of  the  season — and  arrayed 
myself  in  the  discarded  boughs  and  branches,  and 
then  spoke  to  her  with  some  severity  and  ordered 
her  to  go  and  get  some  more  and  not  make  such  a 
spectacle  of  herself.  She  did  it,  and  after  this  we 
crept  down  to  where  the  wild-beast  battle  had  been, 
and  collected  some  skins,  and  I  made  her  patch  to- 
gether a  couple  of  suits  proper  for  public  occasions. 
They  are  uncomfortable,  it  is  true,  but  stylish,  and 
348 


ADAM'S    DIARY 

that  is  the  main  point  about  clothes.  ...  I  find  she 
is  a  good  deal  of  a  companion.  I  see  I  should  be 
lonesome  and  depressed  without  her,  now  that  I 
have  lost  my  property.  Another  thing,  she  says  it  is 
ordered  that  we  work  for  our  living  hereafter.  She 
will  be  useful.  I  will  superintend. 

Ten  Days  Later. — She  accuses  me  of  being  the 
cause  of  our  disaster!  She  says,  with  apparent 
sincerity  and  truth,  that  the  Serpent  assured  her  that 
the  forbidden  fruit  was  not  apples,  it  was  chestnuts. 
I  said  I  was  innocent,  then,  for  I  had  not  eaten  any 
chestnuts.  She  said  the  Serpent  informed  her  that 
"chestnut"  was  a  figurative  term  meaning  an  aged 
and  moldy  joke.  I  turned  pale  at  that,  for  I  have 
made  many  jokes  to  pass  the  weary  time,  and  some 
of  them  could  have  been  of  that  sort,  though  I  had 
honestly  supposed  that  they  were  new  when  I  made 
them.  She  asked  me  if  I  had  made  one  just  at  the 
time  of  the  catastrophe.  I  was  obliged  to  admit  that 
I  had  made  one  to  myself,  though  not  aloud.  It 
was  this.  I  was  thinking  about  the  Falls,  and  I  said 
to  myself,  "How  wonderful  it  is  to  see  that  vast 
body  of  water  tumble  down  there!"  Then  in  an 
instant  a  bright  thought  flashed  into  my  head,  and  I 
let  it  fly,  saying,  "It  would  be  a  deal  more  wonderful 
to  see  it  tumble  up  there!" — and  I  was  just  about 
to  kill  myself  with  laughing  at  it  when  all  nature 
broke  loose  in  war  and  death  and  I  had  to  flee  for 
my  life.  "There,"  she  said,  with  triumph,  "that 
is  just  it;  the  Serpent  mentioned  that  very  jest,  and 
called  it  the  First  Chestnut,  and  said  it  was  coeval 
with  the  creation."  Alas,  I  am  indeed  to  blame. 
349 


MARK    TWAIN 

Would  that  I  were  not  witty;  oh,  that  I  had  never 
had  that  radiant  thought! 

Next  Year. — We  have  named  it  Cain.  She 
caught  it  while  I  was  up  country  trapping  on  the 
North  Shore  of  the  Erie;  caught  it  in  the  timber  a 
couple  of  miles  from  our  dug-out — or  it  might  have 
been  four,  she  isn't  certain  which.  It  resembles  us 
in  some  ways,  and  may  be  a  relation.  That  is  what 
she  thinks,  but  this  is  an  error,  in  my  judgment. 
The  difference  in  size  warrants  the  conclusion  that 
it  is  a  different  and  new  kind  of  animal — a  fish,  per- 
haps, though  when  I  put  it  in  the  water  to  see,  it 
sank,  and  she  plunged  in  and  snatched  it  out  before 
there  was  opportunity  for  the  experiment  to  deter- 
mine the  matter.  I  still  think  it  is  a  fish,  but  she  is 
indifferent  about  what  it  is,  and  will  not  let  me  have 
it  to  try.  I  do  not  understand  this.  The  coming 
of  the  creature  seems  to  have  changed  her  whole 
nature  and  made  her  unreasonable  about  experi- 
ments. She  thinks  more  of  it  than  she  does  of  any 
of  the  other  animals,  but  is  not  able  to  explain  why. 
Her  mind  is  disordered — everything  shows  it.  Some- 
times she  carries  the  fish  in  her  arms  half  the  night 
when  it  complains  and  wants  to  get  to  the  water. 
At  such  times  the  water  comes  out  of  the  places  in 
her  face  that  she  looks  out  of,  and  she  pats  the  fish 
on  the  back  and  makes  soft  sounds  with  her  mouth 
to  soothe  it,  and  betrays  sorrow  and  solicitude  in 
a  hundred  ways.  I  have  never  seen  her  do  like  this 
with  any  other  fish,  and  it  troubles  me  greatly. 
She  used  to  carry  the  young  tigers  around  so,  and 
play  with  them,  before  we  lost  our  property,  but  it 


ADAM'S    DIARY 

was  only  play;  she  never  took  on  about  them  like 
this  when  their  dinner  disagreed  with  them. 

Sunday. — She  doesn't  work,  Sundays,  but  lies 
around  all  tired  out,  and  likes  to  have  the  fish  wallow 
over  her;  and  she  makes  fool  noises  to  amuse  it, 
and  pretends  to  chew  its  paws,  and  that  makes  it 
laugh.  I  have  not  seen  a  fish  before  that  could 
laugh.  This  makes  me  doubt.  ...  I  have  come 
to  like  Sunday  myself.  Superintending  all  the  week 
tires  a  body  so.  There  ought  to  be  more  Sundays. 
In  the  old  days  they  were  tough,  but  now  they 
come  handy. 

Wednesday. — It  isn't  a  fish.  I  cannot  quite  make 
out  what  it  is.  It  makes  curious  devilish  noises 
when  not  satisfied,  and  says  "goo-goo"  when  it  is. 
It  is  not  one  of  us,  for  it  doesn't  walk;  it  is  not  a 
bird,  for  it  doesn't  fly;  it  is  not  a  frog,  for  it  doesn't 
hop;  it  is  not  a  snake,  for  it  doesn't  crawl ,  I  feel  sure 
it  is  not  a  fish,  though  I  cannot  get  a  chance  to  find 
out  whether  it  can  swim  or  not.  It  merely  lies 
around,  and  mostly  on  its  back,  with  its  feet  up. 
I  have  not  seen  any  other  animal  do  that  before. 
I  said  I  believed  it  was  an  enigma;  but  she  only 
admired  the  word  without  understanding  it.  In  my 
judgment  it  is  either  an  enigma  or  some  kind  of  a 
bug.  If  it  dies,  I  will  take  it  apart  and  see  what 
its  arrangements  are.  I  never  had  a  thing  perplex 
me  so. 

Three  Months  Later. — The  perplexity  augments 
instead  of  diminishing.  I  sleep  but  little.  It  has 
ceased  from  lying  around,  and  goes  about  on  its  four 
legs  now.  Yet  it  differs  from  the  other  four-legged 


MARK    TWAIN 

animals,  in  that  its  front  legs  are  unusually  short, 
consequently  this  causes  the  main  part  of  its  person 
to  stick  up  uncomfortably  high  in  the  air,  and  this 
is  not  attractive.  It  is  built  much  as  we  are,  but 
its  method  of  traveling  shows  that  it  is  not  of  our 
breed.  The  short  front  legs  and  long  hind  ones 
indicate  that  it  is  of  the  kangaroo  family,  but  it  is  a 
marked  variation  of  the  species,  since  the  true  kan- 
garoo hops,  whereas  this  one  never  does.  Still  it  is 
a  curious  and  interesting  variety,  and  has  not  been 
catalogued  before.  As  I  discovered  it,  I  have  felt 
justified  in  securing  the  credit  of  the  discovery  by 
attaching  my  name  to  it,  and  hence  have  called  it 
Kangaroorum  Adamiensis.  ...  It  must  have  been 
a  young  one  when  it  came,  for  it  has  grown  exceed- 
ingly since.  It  must  be  five  times  as  big,  now,  as  it 
was  then,  and  when  discontented  it  is  able  to  make 
from  twenty-two  to  thirty-eight  times  the  noise  it 
made  at  first.  Coercion  does  not  modify  this,  but 
has  the  contrary  effect.  For  this  reason  I  discon- 
tinued the  system.  She  reconciles  it  by  persuasion, 
and  by  giving  it  things  which  she  had  previously  told 
me  she  wouldn't  give  it.  As  already  observed,  I  was 
not  at  home  when  it  first  came,  and  she  told  me  she 
found  it  in  the  woods.  It  seems  odd  that  it  should 
be  the  only  one,  yet  it  must  be  so,  for  I  have  worn 
myself  out  these  many  weeks  trying  to  find  another 
one  to  add  to  my  collection,  and  for  this  one  to  play 
with;  for  surely  then  it  would  be  quieter  and  we 
could  tame  it  more  easily.  But  I  find  none,  nor  any 
vestige  of  any;  and  strangest  of  all,  no  tracks.  It 
has  to  live  on  the  ground,  it  cannot  help  itself; 
352 


ADAM'S    DIARY 

therefore,  how  does  it  get  about  without  leaving  a 
track?  I  have  set  a  dozen  traps,  but  they  do  no 
good.  I  catch  all  small  animals  except  that  one; 
animals  that  merely  go  into  the  trap  out  of  curiosity, 
I  think,  to  see  what  the  milk  is  there  for.  They 
never  drink  it. 

Three  Months  Later. — The  Kangaroo  still  continues 
to  grow,  which  is  very  strange  and  perplexing.  I 
never  knew  one  to  be  so  long  getting  its  growth. 
It  has  fur  on  its  head  now;  not  like  kangaroo  fur, 
but  exactly  like  our  hair  except  that  it  is  much 
finer  and  softer,  and  instead  of  being  black  is  red. 
I  am  like  to  lose  my  mind  over  the  capricious  and 
harassing  developments  of  this  unclassifiable  zoolog- 
ical freak.  If  I  could  catch  another  one — but  that 
is  hopeless;  it  is  a  new  variety,  and  the  only  sam- 
ple; this  is  plain.  But  I  caught  a  true  kangaroo 
and  brought  it  in,  thinking  that  this  one,  being 
lonesome,  would  rather  have  that  for  company  than 
have  no  kin  at  all,  or  any  animal  it  could  feel  a 
nearness  to  or  get  sympathy  from  in  its  forlorn 
condition  here  among  strangers  who  do  not  know 
its  ways  or  habits,  or  what  to  do  to  make  it  feel 
that  it  is  among  friends;  but  it  was  a  mistake — 
it  went  into  such  fits  at  the  sight  of  the  kangaroo 
that  I  was  convinced  it  had  never  seen  one  before. 
I  pity  the  poor  noisy  little  animal,  but  there  is 
nothing  I  can  do  to  make  it  happy.  If  I  could 
tame  it — but  that  is  out  of  the  question;  the  more 
I  try  the  worse  I  seem  to  make  it.  It  grieves  me  to 
the  heart  to  see  it  in  its  little  storms  of  sorrow  and 
passion.  I  wanted  to  let  it  go,  but  she  wouldn't 
353 


MARK    TWAIN 

hear  of  it.  That  seemed  cruel  and  not  like  her;  and 
yet  she  may  be  right.  It  might  be  lonelier  than 
ever;  for  since  I  cannot  find  another  one,  how 
could  it? 

Five  Months  Later. — It  is  not  a  kangaroo.  No, 
for  it  supports  itself  by  holding  to  her  finger,  arid 
thus  goes  a  few  steps  on  its  hind  legs,  and  then 
falls  down.  It  is  probably  some  kind  of  a  bear; 
and  yet  it  has  no  tail — as  yet — and  no  fur,  except 
on  its  head.  It  still  keeps  on  growing — that  is  a 
curious  circumstance,  for  bears  get  their  growth 
earlier  than  this.  Bears  are  dangerous — since  our 
catastrophe — and  I  shall  not  be  satisfied  to  have  this 
one  prowling  about  the  place  much  longer  without 
a  muzzle  on.  I  have  offered  to  get  her  a  kangaroo 
if  she  would  let  this  one  go,  but  it  did  no  good — she 
is  determined  to  run  us  into  all  sorts  of  foolish  risks, 
I  think.  She  was  not  like  this  before  she  lost  her 
mind. 

A  Fortnight  Later. — I  examined  its  mouth.  There 
is  no  danger  yet:  it  has  only  one  tooth.  It  has 
no  tail  yet.  It  makes  more  noise  now  than  it  ever 
did  before — and  mainly  at  night.  I  have  moved 
out.  But  I  shall  go  over,  mornings,  to  breakfast, 
and  see  if  it  has  more  teeth.  If  it  gets  a  mouthful 
of  teeth  it  will  be  time  for  it  to  go,  tail  or  no  tail,  for 
a  bear  does  not  need  a  tail  in  order  to  be  dangerous. 

Four  Months  Later. — I  have  been  off  hunting  and 
fishing  a  month,  up  in  the  region  that  she  calls 
Buffalo;  I  don't  know  why,  unless  it  is  because  there 
are  not  any  buffaloes  there.  Meantime  the  bear  has 
learned  to  paddle  around  all  by  itself  on  its  hind  legs, 
354 


ADAM'S    DIARY 

and  says  "poppa"  and  "momma."  It  is  certainly 
a  new  species.  This  resemblance  to  words  may  be 
purely  accidental,  of  course,  and  may  have  no  pur- 
pose or  meaning;  but  even  in  that  case  it  is  still 
extraordinary,  and  is  a  thing  which  no  other  bear 
can  do.  This  imitation  of  speech,  taken  together 
with  general  absence  of  fur  and  entire  absence  of 
tail,  sufficiently  indicates  that  this  is  a  new  kind 
of  bear.  The  further  study  of  it  will  be  exceedingly 
interesting.  Meantime  I  will  go  off  on  a  far  expedi- 
tion among  the  forests  of  the  north  and  make  an 
exhaustive  search.  There  must  certainly  be  another 
one  somewhere,  and  this  one  will  be  less  dangerous 
when  it  has  company  of  its  own  species.  I  will  go 
straightway;  but  I  will  muzzle  this  one  first. 

Three  Montiis  Later. — It  has  been  a  weary,  weary 
hunt,  yet  I  have  had  no  success.  In  the  mean  time, 
without  stirring  from  the  home  estate,  she  has  caught 
another  one !  I  never  saw  such  luck.  I  might  have 
hunted  these  woods  a  hundred  years,  I  never  would 
have  run  across  that  thing. 

Next  Day. — I  have  been  comparing  the  new  one 
with  the  old  one,  and  it  is  perfectly  plain  that  they 
are  the  same  breed.  I  was  going  to  stuff  one  of 
them  for  my  collection,  but  she  is  prejudiced  against 
it  for  some  reason  or  other;  so  I  have  relinquished 
the  idea,  though  I  think  it  is  a  mistake.  It  would 
be  an  irreparable  loss  to  science  if  they  should  get 
away.  The  old  one  is  tamer  than  it  was  and  can 
laugh  and  talk  like  the  parrot,  having  learned  this, 
no  doubt,  from  being  with  the  parrot  so  much,  and 
having  the  imitative  faculty  in  a  highly  developed 
355 


MARK    TWAIN 

degree.  I  shall  be  astonished  if  it  turns  out  to  be 
a  new  kind  of  parrot;  and  yet  I  ought  not  to  be 
astonished,  for  it  has  already  been  everything  else  it 
could  think  of  since  those  first  days  when  it  was 
a  fish.  The  new  one  is  as  ugly  now  as  the  old  one 
was  at  first;  has  the  same  sulphur-and-raw-meat 
complexion  and  the  same  singular  head  without  any 
fur  on  it.  She  calls  it  Abel. 

Ten  Years  Later. — They  are  boys;  we  found  it 
out  long  ago.  It  was  their  coming  in  that  small, 
immature  shape  that  puzzled  us;  we  were  not  used 
to  it.  There  are  some  girls  now.  Abel  is  a  good 
boy,  but  if  Cain  had  stayed  a  bear  it  would  have 
improved  him.  After  all  these  years,  I  see  that  I 
was  mistaken  about  Eve  in  the  beginning ;  it  is  better 
to  live  outside  the  Garden  with  her  than  inside  it 
without  her.  At  first  1  thought  she  talked  too 
much;  but  now  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  that  voice 
fall  silent  and  pass  out  of  my  life.  Blessed  be  the 
chestnut  that  brought  us  near  together  and  taught 
me  to  know  the  goodness  of  her  heart  and  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  spirit ! 


EVE'S    DIARY 

TRANSLATED   FROM   THE   ORIGINAL 

SATURDAY.— I  am  almost  a  whole  day  old, 
*J  now.  I  arrived  yesterday.  That  is  as  it  seems 
to  me.  And  it  must  be  so,  for  if  there  was  a  day- 
before-yesterday  I  was  not  there  when  it  happened, 
or  I  should  remember  it.  It  could  be,  of  course, 
that  it  did  happen,  and  that  I  was  not  noticing. 
Very  well ;  I  will  be  very  watchful  now,  and  if  any 
day-before-yesterdays  happen  I  will  make  a  note  of 
it.  It  will  be  best  to  start  right  and  not  let  the 
record  get  confused,  for  some  instinct  tells  me  that 
these  details  are  going  to  be  important  to  the  his- 
torian some  day.  For  I  feel  like  an  experiment,  I 
feel  exactly  like  an  experiment;  it  would  be  impos- 
sible for  a  person  to  feel  more  like  an  experiment 
than  I  do,  and  so  I  am  coming  to  feel  convinced  that 
that  is  what  I  am — an  experiment;  just  an  experi- 
ment, and  nothing  more. 

Then  if  I  am  an  experiment,  am  I  the  whole  of  it? 
No,  I  think  not ;  I  think  the  rest  of  it  is  part  of  it.  I 
am  the  main  part  of  it,  but  I  think  the  rest  of  it  has 
its  share  in  the  matter.  Is  my  position  assured,  or 
do  I  have  to  watch  it  and  take  care  of  it?  The  lat- 
ter, perhaps.  Some  instinct  tells  me  that  eternal 
357 


MARK    TWAIN 

vigilance  is  the  price  of  supremacy.  [That  is  a  good 
phrase,  I  think,  for  one  so  young.] 

Everything  looks  better  to-day  than  it  did  yester- 
day. In  the  rush  of  finishing  up  yesterday,  the 
mountains  were  left  in  a  ragged  condition,  and  some 
of  the  plains  were  so  cluttered  with  rubbish  and 
remnants  that  the  aspects  were  quite  distressing. 
Noble  and  beautiful  works  of  art  should  not  be  sub- 
jected to  haste;  and  this  majestic  new  world  is 
indeed  a  most  noble  and  beautiful  work.  And  cer- 
tainly marvelously  near  to  being  perfect,  notwith- 
standing the  shortness  of  the  time.  There  are  too 
many  stars  in  some  places  and  not  enough  in  others, 
but  that  can  be  remedied  presently,  no  doubt.  The 
moon  got  loose  last  night,  and  slid  down  and  fell  out 
of  the  scheme — a  very  great  loss;  it  breaks  my  heart 
to  think  of  it.  There  isn't  another  thing  among 
the  ornaments  and  decorations  that  is  comparable 
to  it  for  beauty  and  finish.  It  should  have  been 
fastened  better.  If  we  can  only  get  it  back  again — 

But  of  course  there  is  no  telling  where  it  went  to. 
And  besides,  whoever  gets  it  will  hide  it;  I  know  it 
because  I  would  do  it  myself.  I  believe  I  can  be 
honest  in  all  other  matters,  but  I  already  begin  to 
realize  that  the  core  and  center  of  my  nature  is  love 
of  the  beautiful,  a  passion  for  the  beautiful,  and  that 
it  would  not  be  safe  to  trust  me  with  a  moon  that 
belonged  to  another  person  and  that  person  didn't 
know  I  had  it.  I  could  give  up  a  moon  that  I  found 
in  the  daytime,  because  I  should  be  afraid  some  one 
was  looking;  but  if  I  found  it  in  the  dark,  I  am  sure 
I  should  find  some  kind  of  an  excuse  for  not  saying 
358 


EVE'S    DIARY 

anything  about  it.  For  I  do  love  moons,  they  are 
so  pretty  and  so  romantic.  I  wish  we  had  five  or 
six;  I  would  never  go  to  bed;  I  should  never  get  tired 
lying  on  the  moss-bank  and  looking  up  at  them. 

Stars  are  good,  too.  I  wish  I  could  get  some  to 
put  in  my  hair.  But  I  suppose  I  never  can.  You 
would  be  surprised  to  find  how  far  off  they  are,  for 
they  do  not  look  it.  When  they  first  showed,  last 
night,  I  tried  to  knock  some  down  with  a  pole,  but  it 
didn't  reach,  which  astonished  me ;  then  I  tried  clods 
till  I  was  all  tired  out,  but  I  never  got  one.  It  was 
because  I  am  left-handed  and  cannot  throw  good. 
Even  when  I  aimed  at  the  one  I  wasn't  after  I 
couldn't  hit  the  other  one,  though  I  did  make  some 
close  shots,  for  I  saw  the  black  blot  of  the  clod  sail 
right  into  the  midst  of  the  golden  clusters  forty  or 
fifty  times,  just  barely  missing  them,  and  if  I  could 
have  held  out  a  little  longer  maybe  I  could  have 
got  one. 

So  I  cried  a  little,  which  was  natural,  I  suppose, 
for  one  of  my  age,  and  after  I  was  rested  I  got  a 
basket  and  started  for  a  place  on  the  extreme  rim  of 
the  circle,  where  the  stars  were  close  to  the  ground 
and  I  could  get  them  with  my  hands,  which  would 
be  better,  anyway,  because  I  could  gather  them  ten- 
derly then,  and  not  break  them.  But  it  was  farther 
than  I  thought,  and  at  last  I  had  to  give  it  up;  I  was 
so  tired  I  couldn't  drag  my  feet  another  step;  and 
besides,  they  were  sore  and  hurt  me  very  much. 

I  couldn't  get  back  home ;  it  was  too  far  and  turn- 
ing cold;  but  I  found  some  tigers  and  nestled  in 
among  them  and  was  most  adorably  comfortable, 
361 


MARK    TWAIN 

and  their  breath  was  sweet  and  pleasant,  because 
they  live  on  strawberries.  I  had  never  seen  a  tiger 
before,  but  I  knew  them  in  a  minute  by  the  stripes. 
If  I  could  have  one  of  those  skins,  it  would  make  a 
lovely  gown. 

To-day  I  am  getting  better  ideas  about  distances. 
I  was  so  eager  to  get  hold  of  every  pretty  thing  that 
I  giddily  grabbed  for  it,  sometimes  when  it  was  too 
far  off,  and  sometimes  when  it  was  but  six  inches 
away  but  seemed  a  foot — alas,  with  thorns  between ! 
I  learned  a  lesson;  also  I  made  an  axiom,  all  out  of 
my  own  head — my  very  first  one:  The  scratched  Ex- 
periment shuns  the  thorn.  I  think  it  is  a  very  good 
one  for  one  so  young. 

I  followed  the  other  Experiment  around,  yester- 
day afternoon,  at  a  distance,  to  see  what  it  might  be 
for,  if  I  could.  But  I  was  not  able  to  make  out.  I 
think  it  is  a  man.  I  had  never  seen  a  man,  but  it 
looked  like  one,  and  I  feel  sure  that  that  is  what  it 
is.  I  realize  that  I  feel  more  curiosity  about  it  than 
about  any  of  the  other  reptiles.  If  it  is  a  reptile, 
and  I  suppose  it  is;  for  it  has  frowsy  hair  and  blue 
eyes,  and  looks  like  a  reptile.  It  has  no  hips;  it 
tapers  like  a  carrot;  when  it  stands,  it  spreads  itself 
apart  like  a  derrick;  so  I  think  it  is  a  reptile,  though 
it  may  be  architecture. 

I  was  afraid  of  it  at  first,  and  started  to  run  every 
time  it  turned  around,  for  I  thought  it  was  going  to 
chase  me;  but  by  and  by  I  found  it  was  only  trying 
to  get  away,  so  after  that  I  was  not  timid  any  more, 
but  tracked  it  along,  several  hours,  about  twenty 
yards  behind,  which  made  it  nervous  and  unhappy. 
362 


EVE'S    DIARY 

At  last  it  was  a  good  deal  worried,  and  climbed  a 
tree.  I  waited  a  good  while,  then  gave  it  up  and 
went  home. 

To-day  the  same  thing  over.  I've  got  it  up  the 
tree  again. 

Sunday. — It  is  up  there  yet.  Resting,  apparently. 
But  that  is  a  subterfuge:  Sunday  isn't  the  day  of 
rest;  Saturday  is  appointed  for  that.  It  looks  to 
me  like  a  creature  that  is  more  interested  in  resting 
than  in  anything  else.  It  would  tire  me  to  rest  so 
much.  It  tires  me  just  to  sit  around  and  watch  the 
tree.  I  do  wonder  what  it  is  for;  I  never  see  it  do 
anything. 

They  returned  the  moon  last  night,  and  I  was  so 
happy!  I  think  it  is  very  honest  of  them.  It  slid 
down  and  fell  off  again,  but  I  was  not  distressed; 
there  is  no  need  to  worry  when  one  has  that  kind 
of  neighbors;  they  will  fetch  it  back.  I  wish  I  could 
do  something  to  show  my  appreciation.  I  would 
like  to  send  them  some  stars,  for  we  have  more  than 
we  can  use.  I  mean  I,  not  we,  for  I  can  see  that 
the  reptile  cares  nothing  for  such  things. 

It  has  low  tastes,  and  is  not  kind.  When  I  went 
there  yesterday  evening  in  the  gloaming  it  had  crept 
down  and  was  trying  to  catch  the  little  speckled 
fishes  that  play  in  the  pool,  and  I  had  to  clod  it  to 
make  it  go  up  the  tree  again  and  let  them  alone.  I 
wonder  if  that  is  what  it  is  for?  Hasn't  it  any  heart? 
Hasn't  it  any  compassion  for  those  little  creatures? 
Can  it  be  that  it  was  designed  and  manufactured  for 
such  ungentle  work?  It  has  the  look  of  it.  One  of 
the  clods  took  it  back  of  the  ear,  and  it  used  language. 
363 


MARK    TWAIN 

It  gave  me  a  thrill,  for  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
heard  speech,  except  my  own.  I  did  not  understand 
the  words,  but  they  seemed  expressive. 

When  I  found  it  could  talk  I  felt  a  new  interest  in 
it,  for  I  love  to  talk;  I  talk,  all  day,  and  in  my  sleep, 
too,  and  I  am  very  interesting,  but  if  I  had  another 
to  talk  to  I  could  be  twice  as  interesting,  and  would 
never  stop,  if  desired. 

If  this  reptile  is  a  man,  it  isn't  an  it,  is  it?  That 
wouldn't  be  grammatical,  would  it?  I  think  it 
would  be  he.  I  think  so.  In  that  case  one  would 
parse  it  thus :  nominative,  he;  dative,  him;  possessive, 
his'n.  Well,  I  will  consider  it  a  man  and  call  it  he 
until  it  turns  out  to  be  something  else.  This  will  be 
handier  than  having  so  many  uncertainties. 

Next  week  Sunday. — All  the  week  I  tagged  around 
after  him  and  tried  to  get  acquainted.  I  had  to  do 
the  talking,  because  he  was  shy,  but  I  didn't  mind 
it.  He  seemed  pleased  to  have  me  around,  and  I 
used  the  sociable  "we"  a  good  deal,  because  it 
seemed  to  flatter  him  to  be  included. 

Wednesday. — We  are  getting  along  very  well  in- 
deed, now,  and  getting  better  and  better  acquainted. 
He  does  not  try  to  avoid  me  any  more,  which  is  a 
good  sign,  and  shows  that  he  likes  to  have  me  with 
him.  That  pleases  me,  and  I  study  to  be  useful  to 
him  in  every  way  I  can,  so  as  to  increase  his  regard. 
During  the  last  day  or  two  I  have  taken  all  the  work 
of  naming  things  off  his  hands,  and  this  has  been  a 
great  relief  to  him,  for  he  has  not  gift  in  that  line,  and 
is  evidently  very  grateful.  He^can't  think  of  a  ra- 
tional name  to  save  him,  but  I  do  not  let  him  see 
364 


EVE'S    DIARY 

that  I  am  aware  of  his  defect.  Whenever  a  new 
creature  comes  along  I  name  it  before  he  has  time 
to  expose  himself  by  an  awkward  silence.  In  this 
way  I  have  saved  him  many  embarrassments.  I 
have  no  defect  like  his.  The  minute  I  set  eyes  on 
an  animal  I  know  what  it  is.  I  don't  have  to  reflect 
a  moment;  the  right  name  comes  out  instantly,  just 
as  if  it  were  an  inspiration,  as  no  doubt  it  is,  for  I 
am  sure  it  wasn't  in  me  half  a  minute  before.  I 
seem  to  know  just  by  the  shape  of  the  creature  and 
the  way  it  acts  what  animal  it  is. 

When  the  dodo  came  along  he  thought  it  was  a 
wildcat — I  saw  it  in  his  eye.  But  I  saved  him. 
And  I  was  careful  not  to  do  it  in  a  way  that  could 
hurt  his  pride.  I  just  spoke  up  in  a  quite  natural 
way  of  pleased  surprise,  and  not  as  if  I  was  dreaming 
of  conveying  information,  and  said,  "Well,  I  do  de- 
clare, if  there  isn't  the  dodo!"  I  explained — with- 
out seeming  to  be  explaining — how  I  knew  it  for  a 
dodo,  and  although  I  thought  maybe  he  was  a  little 
piqued  that  I  knew  the  creature  when  he  didn't, 
it  was  quite  evident  that  he  admired  me.  That 
was  very  agreeable,  and  I  thought  of  it  more  than 
once  with  gratification  before  I  slept.  How  little  a 
thing  can  make  us  happy  when  we  feel  that  we  have 
earned  it ! 

Thursday. — My  first  sorrow.  Yesterday  he  avoid- 
ed me  and  seemed  to  wish  I  would  not  talk  to  him. 
I  could  not  believe  it,  and  thought  there  was  some 
mistake,  for  I  loved  to  be  with  him,  and  loved  to 
hear  him  talk,  and  so  how  could  it  be  that  he  could 
feel  unkind  toward  me  when  I  had  not  done  any- 
365 


MARK    TWAIN 

thing?  But  at  last  it  seemed  true,  so  I  went  away 
and  sat  lonely  in  the  place  where  I  first  saw  him  the 
morning  that  we  were  made  and  I  did  not  know 
what  he  was  and  was  indifferent  about  him;  but  now 
it  was  a  mournful  place,  and  every  little  thing  spoke 
of  him,  and  my  heart  was  very  sore.  I  did  not 
know  why  very  clearly,  for  it  was  a  new  feeling;  I 
had  not  experienced  it  before,  and  it  was  all  a  mys- 
tery, and  I  could  not  make  it  out. 

But  when  night  came  I  could  not  bear  the  lone- 
someness,  and  went  to  the  new  shelter  which  he  has 
built,  to  ask  him  what  I  had  done  that  was  wrong 
and  how  I  could  mend  it  and  get  back  his  kindness 
again;  but  he  put  me  out  in  the  rain,  and  it  was  my 
first  sorrow. 

Sunday. — It  is  pleasant  again,  now,  and  I  am 
happy;  but  those  were  heavy  days;  I  do  not  think 
of  them  when  I  can  help  it. 

I  tried  to  get  him  some  of  those  apples,  but  I  can- 
not learn  to  throw  straight.  I  failed,  but  I  think  the 
good  intention  pleased  him.  They  are  forbidden, 
and  he  says  I  shall  come  to  harm;  but  so  I  come  to 
harm  through  pleasing  him,  why  shall  I  care  for  that 
harm? 

Monday. — This  morning  I  told  him  my  name, 
hoping  it  would  interest  him.  But  he  did  not  care 
for  it.  It  is  strange.  If  he  should  tell  me  his  name, 
I  would  care.  I  think  it  would  be  pleasanter  in  my 
ears  than  any  other  sound. 

He  talks  very  little.  Perhaps  it  is  because  he  is 
not  bright,  and  is  sensitive  about  it  and  wishes  to 
conceal  it.  It  is  such  a  pity  that  he  should  feel  so, 
366 


EVE'S    DIARY 

for  brightness  is  nothing;  it  is  in  the  heart  that  the 
values  lie.  I  wish  I  could  make  him  understand 
that  a  loving  good  heart  is  riches,  and  riches  enough, 
and  that  without  it  intellect  is  poverty. 

Although  he  talks  so  little,  he  has  quite  a  consider- 
able vocabulary.  This  morning  he  used  a  surpris- 
ingly good  word.  He  evidently  recognized,  himself, 
that  it  was  a  good  one,  for  he  worked  it  in  twice 
afterward,  casually.  It  was  not  good  casual  art, 
still  it  showed  that  he  possesses  a  certain  quality  of 
perception.  Without  a  doubt  that  seed  can  be  made 
to  grow,  if  cultivated. 

Where  did  he  get  that  word?  I  do  not  think  I 
have  ever  used  it. 

No,  he  took  no  interest  in  my  name.  I  tried  to 
hide  my  disappointment,  but  I  suppose  I  did  not 
succeed.  I  went  away  and  sat  on  the  moss-bank 
with  my  feet  in  the  water.  It  is  where  I  go  when  I 
hunger  for  companionship,  some  one  to  look  at, 
some  one  to  talk  to.  It  is  not  enough — that  lovely 
white  body  painted  there  in  the  pool — but  it  is 
something,  and  something  is  better  than  utter  loneli- 
ness. It  talks  when  I  talk;  it  is  sad  when  I  am  sad; 
it  comforts  me  with  its  sympathy;  it  says,  "Do  not 
be  downhearted,  you  poor  friendless  girl;  I  will  be 
your  friend."  It  is  a  good  friend  to  me,  and  my 
only  one;  it  is  my  sister. 

That  first  time  that  she  forsook  me!  ah,  I  shall 
never  forget  that — never,  never.  My  heart  was  lead 
in  my  body!  I  said,  "She  was  all  I  had,  and  now 
she  is  gone!"  In  my  despair  I  said,  "Break,  my 
heart;  I  cannot  bear  my  life  any  more!"  and  hid  my 
367 


MARK    TWAIN 

? 

face  in  my  hands,  and  there  was  no  solace  for  me. 
And  when  I  took  them  away,  after  a  little,  there 
she  was  again,  white  and  shining  and  beautiful,  and 
I  sprang  into  her  arms ! 

That  was  perfect  happiness;  I  had  known  happi- 
ness before,  but  it  was  not  like  this,  which  was 
ecstasy.  I  never  doubted  her  afterward.  Some- 
times she  stayed  away — maybe  an  hour,  maybe  al- 
most the  whole  day,  but  I  waited  and  did  not  doubt ; 
I  said,  "She  is  busy,  or  she  is  gone  a  journey,  but 
she  will  come."  And  it  was  so:  she  always  did.  At 
night  she  would  not  come  if  it  was  dark,  for  she  was 
a  timid  little  thing;  but  if  there  was  a  moon  she 
would  come.  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  dark,  but  she  is 
younger  than  I  am;  she  was  born  after  I  was.  Many 
and  many  are  the  visits  I  have  paid  her;  she  is  my 
comfort  and  my  refuge  when  my  life  is  hard — and 
it  is  mainly  that. 

Tuesday. — All  the  morning  I  was  at  work  improv- 
ing the  estate ;  and  I  purposely  kept  away  from  him 
in  the  hope  that  he  would  get  lonely  and  come.  But 
he  did  not. 

At  noon  I  stopped  for  the  day  and  took  my  recrea- 
tion by  flitting  all  about  with  the  bees  and  the  but- 
terflies and  reveling  in  the  flowers,  those  beautiful 
creatures  that  catch  the  smile  of  God  out  of  the  sky 
and  preserve  it!  I  gathered  them,  and  made  them 
into  wreaths  and  garlands  and  clothed  myself  in 
them  while  I  ate  my  luncheon — apples,  of  course; 
then  I  sat  in  the  shade  and  wished  and  waited.  But 
he  did  not  come. 

But  no  matter.  Nothing  would  have  come  of  it, 
368 


EVE'S    DIARY 

for  he  does  not  care  for  flowers.  He  calls  them  rub- 
bish, and  cannot  tell  one  from  another,  and  thinks 
it  is  superior  to  feel  like  that.  He  does  not  care  for 
me,  he  does  not  care  for  flowers,  he  does  not  care 
for  the  painted  sky  at  eventide — is  there  anything 
he  does  care  for,  except  building  shacks  to  coop  him- 
self up  in  from  the  good  clean  rain,  and  thumping 
the  melons,  and  sampling  the  grapes,  and  fingering 
the  fruit  on  the  trees,  to  see  how  those  properties 
are  coming  along? 

I  laid  a  dry  stick  on  the  ground  and  tried  to  bore 
a  hole  in  it  with  another  one,  in  order  to  carry  out  a 
scheme  that  I  had,  and  soon  I  got  an  awful  fright. 
A  thin,  transparent  bluish  film  rose  out  of  the  hole, 
and  I  dropped  everything  and  ran!  I  thought  it 
was  a  spirit,  and  I  was  so  frightened!  But  I  looked 
back,  and  it  was  not  coming;  so  I  leaned  against  a 
rock  and  rested  and  panted,  and  let  my  limbs  go  on 
trembling  until  they  got  steady  again;  then  I  crept 
warily  back,  alert,  watching,  and  ready  to  fly  if  there 
was  occasion;  and  when  I  was  come  near,  I  parted 
the  branches  of  a  rose-bush  and  peeped  through — 
wishing  the  man  was  about,  I  was  looking  so  cun- 
ning and  pretty — but  the  sprite  was  gone.  I  went 
there,  and  there  was  a  pinch  of  delicate  pink  dust  in 
the  hole.  I  put  my  finger  in,  to  feel  it,  and  said 
ouch!  and  took  it  out  again.  It  was  a  cruel  pain.  I 
put  my  finger  in  my  mouth;  and  by  standing  first 
on  one  foot  and  then  the  other,  and  grunting,  I 
presently  eased  my  misery;  then  I  was  full  of  in- 
terest, and  began  to  examine. 

I  was  curious  to  know  what  the  pink  dust  was. 
3*9 


MARK    TWAIN 

Suddenly  the  name  of  it  occurred  to  me,  though  I 
had  never  heard  of  it  before.  It  was  fire!  I  was 
as  certain  of  it  as  a  person  could  be  of  anything  in 
the  world.  So  without  hesitation  I  named  it  that — 
fire. 

I  had  created  something  that  didn't  exist  before; 
I  had  added  a  new  thing  to  the  world's  uncountable 
properties;  I  realized  this,  and  was  proud  of  my 
achievement,  and  was  going  to  run  and  find  him  and 
tell  him  about  it,  thinking  to  raise  myself  in  his 
esteem — but  I  reflected,  and  did  not  do  it.  No — he 
would  not  care  for  it.  He  would  ask  what  it  was 
good  for,  and  what  could  I  answer?  for  if  it  was 
not  good  for  something,  but  only  beautiful,  nerely 
beautiful — 

So  I  sighed,  and  did  not  go.  For  it  wasn't  good 
for  anything;  it  could  not  build  a  shack,  it  could  not 
improve  melons,  it  could  not  hurry  a  fruit  crop;  it 
was  useless,  it  was  a  foolishness  and  a  vanity;  he 
would  despise  it  and  say  cutting  words.  But  to  me 
it  was  not  despicable;  I  said,  "Oh,  you  fire,  I  love 
you,  you  dainty  pink  creature,  for  you  are  beautiful 
— and  that  is  enough!"  and  was  going  to  gather  it 
to  my  breast.  But  refrained.  Then  I  made  an- 
other maxim  out  of  my  own  head,  though  it  was  so 
nearly  like  the  first  one  that  I  was  afraid  it  was 
only  a  plagiarism:  "The  burnt  Experiment  shuns  the 
fire" 

I  wrought  again;   and  when  I  had  made  a  good 

deal  of  fire-dust  I  emptied  it  into  a  handful  of  dry 

brown  grass,  intending  to  carry  it  home  and  keep  it 

always  and  play  with  it;  but  the  wind  struck  it  and 

37o 


EVE'S    DIARY 

it  sprayed  up  and  spat  out  at  me  fiercely,  and  I 
dropped  it  and  ran.  When  I  looked  back  the  blue 
spirit  was  towering  up  and  stretching  and  rolling 
away  like  a  cloud,  and  instantly  I  thought  of  the 
name  of  it — smoke/ — though,  upon  my  word,  I  had 
never  heard  of  smoke  before. 

Soon,  brilliant  yellow  and  red  flares  shot  up 
through  the  smoke,  and  I  named  them  in  an  instant 
— flames  — and  I  was  right,  too,  though  these  were 
the  very  first  flames  that  had  ever  been  in  the  world. 
They  climbed  the  trees,  they  flashed  splendidly  in 
and  out  of  the  vast  and  increasing  volume  of  tum- 
bling smoke,  and  I  had  to  clap  my  hands  and  laugh 
and  dance  in  my  rapture,  it  was  so  new  and  strange 
and  so  wonderful  and  so  beautiful! 

He  came  running,  and  stopped  and  gazed,  and  said 
not  a  word  for  many  minutes.  Then  he  asked  what 
it  was.  Ah,  it  was  too  bad  that  he  should  ask  such 
a  direct  question.  I  had  to  answer  it,  of  course,  and 
I  did.  I  said  it  was  fire.  If  it  annoyed  him  that  I 
should  know  and  he  must  ask ;  that  was  not  my  fault ;  I 
had  no  desire  to  annoy  him.  After  a  pause  he  asked: 

"How  did  it  come?" 

Another  direct  question,  and  it  also  had  to  have 
a  direct  answer. 

"I  made  it." 

The  fire  was  traveling  farther  and  farther  off. 
He  went  to  the  edge  of  the  burned  place  and  stood 
looking  down,  and  said: 

"What  are  these?" 

"Fire-coals." 

He  picked  up  one  to  examine  it,  but  changed  his 


MARK    TWAIN 

mind  and  put  it  down  again.  Then  he  went  away. 
Nothing  interests  him. 

But  I  was  interested.  There  were  ashes,  gray  and 
soft  and  delicate  and  pretty — I  knew  what  they  were 
at  once.  And  the  embers;  I  knew  the  embers,  too. 
I  found  my  apples,  and  raked  them  out,  and  was 
glad;  for  I  am  very  young  and  my  appetite  is  active. 
But  I  was  disappointed;  they  were  all  burst  open 
and  spoiled.  Spoiled  apparently;  but  it  was  not  so; 
they  were  better  than  raw  ones.  Fire  is  beautiful; 
some  day  it  will  be  useful,  I  think. 

Friday. — I  saw  him  again,  for  a  moment,  last 
Monday  at  nightfall,  but  only  for  a  moment.  I  was 
hoping  he  would  praise  me  for  trying  to  improve  the 
estate,  for  I  had  meant  well  and  had  worked  hard. 
But  he  was  not  pleased,  and  turned  away  and  left 
me.  He  was  also  displeased  on  another  account:  I 
tried  once  more  to  persuade  him  to  stop  going  over 
the  Falls.  That  was  because  the  fire  had  revealed 
to  me  a  new  passion — quite  new,  and  distinctly  differ- 
ent from  love,  grief,  and  those  others  which  I  had 
already  discovered— -fear.  And  it  is  horrible ! — I  wish 
I  had  never  discovered  it;  it  gives  me  dark  moments, 
it  spoils  my  happiness,  it  makes  me  shiver  and 
tremble  and  shudder.  But  I  could  not  persuade  him, 
for  he  has  not  discovered  fear  yet,  and  so  he  could 
not  understand  me. 

Extract  from  Adam's  Diary 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  remember  that  she  is  very  young, 
a  mere  girl,  and  make  allowances.    She  is  all  interest, 
372 


EVE'S    DIARY 

eagerness,  vivacity,  the  world  is  to  her  a  charm,  a  won- 
der, a  mystery,  a  joy;  she  can't  speak  for  delight  when 
she  finds  a  new  flower,  she  must  pet  it  and  caress  it  and 
smell  it  and  talk  to  it,  and  pour  out  endearing  names 
upon  it.  And  she  is  color-mad:  brown  rocks,  yellow 
sand,  gray  moss,  green  foliage,  blue  sky;  the  pearl  of 
the  dawn,  the  purple  shadows  on  the  mountains,  the 
golden  islands  floating  in  crimson  seas  at  sunset,  the 
pallid  moon  sailing  through  the  shredded  cloud-rack, 
the  star- jewels  glittering  in  the  wastes  of  space — none  of 
them  is  of  any  practical  value,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  but 
because  they  have  color  and  majesty,  that  is  enough  for 
her,  and  she  loses  her  mind  over  them.  If  she  could 
quiet  down  and  keep  still  a  couple  of  minutes  at  a  time, 
it  would  be  a  reposeful  spectacle.  In  that  case  I  think 
I  could  enjoy  looking  at  her;  indeed  I  am  sure  I  could, 
for  I  am  coming  to  realize  that  she  is  a  quite  remarkably 
comely  creature — lithe,  slender,  trim,  rounded,  shapely, 
nimble,  graceful;  and  once  when  she  was  standing 
marble-white  and  sun-drenched  on  a  boulder,  with  her 
young  head  tilted  back  and  her  hand  shading  her  eyes, 
watching  the  flight  of  a  bird  in  the  sky,  I  recognized  that 
she  was  beautiful. 

Monday  noon. — //  there  is  anything  on  the  planet 
that  she  is  not  interested  in  it  is  not  in  my  list.  There 
are  animals  that  I  am  indifferent  to,  but  it  is  not  so 
with  her.  She  has  no  discrimination,  she  takes  to  all 
of  them,  she  thinks  they  are  all  treasures,  every  new  one 
is  welcome. 

When  the  mighty  brontosaurus  came  striding  into 
camp,  she  regarded  it  as  an  acquisition,  I  considered  it 
a  calamity;  that  is  a  good  sample  of  the  lack  of  harmony 
373 


MARK    TWAIN 

that  prevails  in  our  views  of  things.  She  wanted  to 
domesticate  it,  I  wanted  to  make  it  a  present  of  the 
homestead  and  move  out.  She  believed  it  could  be 
tamed  by  kind  treatment  and  would  be  a  good  pet;  I 
said  a  pet  twenty-one  feet  high  and  eighty-four  feet  long 
would  be  no  proper  thing  to  have  about  the  place,  be- 
cause, even  with  the  best  intentions  and  without  meaning 
any  harm,  it  could  sit  down  on  the  house  and  mash  it, 
for  any  one  could  see  by  the  look  of  its  eye  that  it  was 
absent-minded. 

Still,  her  heart  was  set  upon  having  that  monster, 
and  she  couldn't  give  it  up.  She  thought  we  could  start 
a  dairy  with  it,  and  wanted  me  to  help  her  milk  it; 
but  I  wouldn't;  it  was  too  risky.  The  sex  wasn't  right, 
and  we  hadn't  any  ladder  anyway.  Then  she  wanted  to 
ride  it,  and  look  at  the  scenery.  Thirty  or  forty  feet  of 
its  tail  was  lying  on  the  ground,  like  a  fallen  tree,  and 
she  thought  she  could  climb  it,  but  she  was  mistaken; 
when  she  got  to  the  steep  place  it  was  too  slick  and  down 
she  came,  and  would  have  hurt  herself  but  for  me. 

Was  she  satisfied  now?  No.  Nothing  ever  satisfies 
her  but  demonstration;  untested  theories  are  not  in  her 
line,  and  she  won't  have  them.  It  is  the  right  spirit,  I 
concede  it;  it  attracts  me;  I  feel  the  influence  of  it;  if 
I  were  with  her  more  I  think  I  should  take  it  up  myself. 
Well,  she  had  one  theory  remaining  about  this  colossus: 
she  thought  that  if  we  could  tame  him  and  make  him 
friendly  we  could  stand  him  in  the  river  and  use  him 
for  a  bridge.  It  turned  out  that  he  was  already  plenty 
tame  enough — at  hast  as  far  as  she  was  concerned — so 
she  tried  her  theory,  but  it  failed:  every  time  she  got  him 
properly  placed  in  the  river  and  went  ashore  to  cross 
374 


EVE'S    DIARY 

over  on  him,  he  came  out  and  followed  her  around  like  a 
pet  mountain.    Like  the  other  animals.    They  all  do  that. 

Friday.  — Tuesday — Wednesday — Thursday — and 
to-day:  all  without  seeing  him.  It  is  a  long  time 
to  be  alone;  still,  it  is  better  to  be  alone  than  un- 
welcome. 

I  had  to  have  company — I  was  made  for  it,  I 
think — so  I  made  friends  with  the  animals.  They 
are  just  charming,  and  they  have  the  kindest  dis- 
position and  the  politest  ways;  they  never  look  sour, 
they  never  let  you  feel  that  you  are  intruding,  they 
smile  at  you  and  wag  their  tail,  if  they've  got  one, 
and  they  are  always  ready  for  a  romp  or  an  excursion 
or  anything  you  want  to  propose.  I  think  they  are 
perfect  gentlemen.  All  these  days  we  have  had  such 
good  times,  and  it  hasn't  been  lonesome  for  me,  ever. 
Lonesome!  No,  I  should  say  not.  Why,  there's 
always  a  swarm  of  them  around — sometimes  as  much 
as  four  or  five  acres — you  can't  count  them;  and 
when  you  stand  on  a  rock  in  the  midst  and  look  out 
over  the  furry  expanse  it  is  so  mottled  and  splashed 
and  gay  with  color  and  frisking  sheen  and  sun-flash, 
and  so  rippled  with  stripes,  that  you  might  think  it 
was  a  lake,  only  you  know  it  isn't;  and  there's  storms 
of  sociable  birds,  and  hurricanes  of  whirring  wings; 
and  when  the  sun  strikes  all  that  feathery  com- 
motion, you  have  a  blazing  up  of  all  the  colors  you 
can  think  of,  enough  to  put  your  eyes  out. 

We  have  made  long  excursions,  and  I  have  seen  a 
great  deal  of  the  world;  almost  all  of  it,  I  think; 
and  so  I  am  the  first  traveler,  and  the  only  one. 
375 


MARK    TWAIN 

When  we  are  on  the  march,  it  is  an  imposing  sight — 
there's  nothing  like  it  anywhere.  For  comfort  I 
ride  a  tiger  or  a  leopard,  because  it  is  soft  and  has 
a  round  back  that  fits  me,  and  because  they  are  such 
pretty  animals ;  but  for  long  distance  or  for  scenery 
I  ride  the  elephant.  He  hoists  me  up  with  his 
trunk,  but  I  can  get  off  myself;  when  we  are  ready 
to  camp,  he  sits  and  I  slide  down  the  back  way. 

The  birds  and  animals  are  all  friendly  to  each 
other,  and  there  are  no  disputes  about  anything. 
They  all  talk,  and  they  all  talk  to  me,  but  it  must  be 
a  foreign  language,  for  I  cannot  make  out  a  word 
they  say;  yet  they  often  understand  me  when  I  talk 
back,  particularly  the  dog  and  the  elephant.  It 
makes  me  ashamed.  It  shows  that  they  are  brighter 
than  I  am,  and  are  therefore  my  superiors.  It  an- 
noys me,  for  I  want  to  be  the  principal  Experiment 
myself — and  I  intend  to  be,  too. 

I  have  learned  a  number  of  things,  and  am  edu- 
cated, now,  but  I  wasn't  at  first.  I  was  ignorant  at 
first.  At  first  it  used  to  vex  me  because,  with  all 
my  watching,  I  was  never  smart  enough  to  be 
around  when  the  water  was  running  uphill;  but 
now  I  do  not  mind  it.  I  have  experimented  and 
experimented  until  now  I  know  it  never  does  run 
uphill,  except  in  the  dark.  I  know  it  does  in  the 
dark,  because  the  pool  never  goes  dry,  which  it 
would,  of  course,  if  the  water  didn't  come  back  in 
the  night.  It  is  best  to  prove  things  by  actual  ex- 
periment; then  you  know;  whereas  if  you  depend 
on  guessing  and  supposing  and  conjecturing,  you 
will  never  get  educated. 

376 


EVE'S    DIARY 

Some  things  you  can't  find  out;  but  you  will  never 
know  you  can't  by  guessing  and  supposing :  no,  you 
have  to  be  patient  and  go  on  experimenting  until 
you  find  out  that  you  can't  find  out.  And  it  is  de- 
lightful to  have  it  that  way,  it  makes  the  world  so 
interesting.  If  there  wasn't  anything  to  find  out,  it 
would  be  dull.  Even  trying  to  find  out  and  not 
finding  out  is  just  as  interesting  as  trying  to  find 
out  and  finding  out,  and  I  don't  know  but  more  so. 
The  secret  of  the  water  was  a  treasure  until  I  got  it; 
then  the  excitement  all  went  away,  and  I  recognized 
a  sense  of  loss. 

By  experiment  I  know  that  wood  swims,  and  dry 
leaves,  and  feathers,  and  plenty  of  other  things; 
therefore  by  all  that  cumulative  evidence  you  know 
that  a  rock  will  swim;  but  you  have  to  put  up  with 
simply  knowing  it,  for  there  isn't  any  way  to  prove 
it — up  to  now.  But  I  shall  find  a  way — then  that 
excitement  will  go.  Such  things  make  me  sad;  be- 
cause by  and  by  when  I  have  found  out  everything 
there  won't  be  any  more  excitements,  and  I  do  love 
excitements  so!  The  other  night  I  couldn't  sleep 
for  thinking  about  it. 

At  first  I  couldn't  make  out  what  I  was  made  for. 
but  now  I  think  it  was  to  search  out  the  secrets  of 
this  wonderful  world  and  be  happy  and  thank  the 
Giver  of  it  all  for  devising  it.  I  think  there  are 
many  things  to  learn  yet — I  hope  so;  and  by  econo- 
mizing and  not  hurrying  too  fast  I  think  they  will 
last  weeks  and  weeks.  I  hope  so.  When  you  cast 
up  a  feather  it  sails  away  on  the  air  and  goes  out  of 
sight;  then  you  throw  up  a  clod  and  it  doesn't.  It 
377 


MARK    TWAIN 

comes  down,  every  time.  I  have  tired  it  and  tried 
it,  and  it  is  always  so.  I  wonder  why  it  is?  Of 
course  it  doesn't  come  down,  but  why  should  it  seem 
to?  I  suppose  it  is  an  optical  illusion.  I  mean,  one 
of  them  is.  I  don't  know  which  one.  I  may  be 
the  feather,  it  may  be  the  clod;  I  can't  prove  which 
it  is,  I  can  only  demonstrate  that  one  or  the  other 
is  a  fake,  and  let  a  person  take  his  choice. 

By  watching,  I  know  that  the  stars  are  not  going 
to  last.  I  have  seen  some  of  the  best  ones  melt  and 
run  down  the  sky.  Since  one  can  melt,  they  can  all 
melt;  since  they  can  all  melt,  they  can  all  melt  the 
same  night.  That  sorrow  will  come — I  know  it.  I 
mean  to  sit  up  every  night  and  look  at  them  as  long 
as  I  can  keep  awake ;  and  I  will  impress  those  spark- 
ling fields  on  my  memory,  so  that  by  and  by  when 
they  are  taken  away  I  can  by  my  fancy  resore  those 
lovely  myriads  to  the  black  sky  and  make  them 
sparkle  again,  and  double  them  by  the  blur  of  my 
tears. 

AFTER   THE    FALL 

When  I  look  back,  the  Garden  is  a  dream  to  me. 
It  was  beautiful,  surpassingly  beautiful,  enchant- 
ingly  beautiful;  and  now  it  is  lost,  and  I  shall  not 
see  it  any  more. 

The  Garden  is  lost,  but  I  have  found  him,  and  am 
content.  He  loves  me  as  well  as  he  can;  I  love  him 
with  all  the  strength  of  my  passionate  nature,  and 
this,  I  think,  is  proper  to  my  youth  and  sex.  If  I 
ask  myself  why  I  love  him,  I  find  I  do  not  know, 
and  do  not  really  much  care  to  know;  so  I  suppose 
378 


EVE'S    DIARY 

that  this  kind  of  love  is  not  a  product  of  reasoning 
and  statistics,  like  one's  love  for  other  reptiles  and 
animals.  I  think  that  this  must  be  so.  I  love  cer- 
tain birds  because  of  their  song;  but  I  do  not  love 
Adam  on  account  of  his  singing  —  no,  it  is  not 
that;  the  more  he  sings  the  more  I  do  not  get  rec- 
onciled to  it.  Yet  I  ask  him  to  sing,  because  I 
wish  to  learn  to  like  everything  he  is  interested 
in.  I  am  sure  I  can  learn,  because  at  first  I 
could  not  stand  it,  but  now  I  can.  It  sours  the 
milk,  but  it  doesn't  matter;  I  can  get  used  to  that 
kind  of  milk. 

It  is  not  on  account  of  his  brightness  that  I  love 
him — no,  it  is  not  that.  He  is  not  to  blame  for  his 
brightness,  such  as  it  is,  for  he  did  not  make  it  him- 
self; he  is  as  God  made  him,  and  that  is  sufficient. 
There  was  a  wise  purpose  in  it,  that  I  know.  In 
time  it  will  develop,  though  I  think  it  will  not  be 
sudden;  and  besides,  there  is  no  hurry;  he  is  well 
enough  just  as  he  is. 

It  is  not  on  account  of  his  gracious  and  considerate 
ways  and  his  delicacy  that  I  love  him.  No,  he  has 
lacks  in  these  regards,  but  he  is  well  enough  just  so, 
and  is  improving. 

It  is  not  on  account  of  his  industry  that  I  love 
him — no,  it  is  not  that.  I  think  he  has  it  in  him, 
and  I  do  not  know  why  he  conceals  it  from  me.  It 
is  my  only  pain.  Otherwise  he  is  frank  and  open 
with  me,  now.  I  am  sure  he  keeps  nothing  from  me 
but  this.  It  grieves  me  that  he  should  have  a  secret 
from  me,  and  sometimes  it  spoils  my  sleep,  thinking 
of  it,  but  I  will  put  it  out  of  my  mind;  it  shall  not 
379 


MARK    TWAIN 

trouble  my  happiness,  which  is  otherwise  full  to 
overflowing. 

It  is  not  on  account  of  his  education  that  I  love 
him — no,  it  is  not  that.  He  is  self-educated,  and 
does  really  know  a  multitude  of  things,  but  they  are 
not  so. 

It  is  not  on  account  of  his  chivalry  that  I  love 
him — no,  it  is  not  that.  He  told  on  me,  but  I  do 
not  blame  him;  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  sex,  I  think,  and 
he  did  not  make  his  sex.  Of  course  I  would  not  have 
told  on  him,  I  would  have  perished  first ;  but  that  is 
a  peculiarity  of  sex,  too,  and  I  do  not  take  credit  for 
it,  for  I  did  not  make  my  sex. 

Then  why  is  it  that  I  love  him?  Merely  because 
he  is  masculine,  I  think. 

At  bottom  he  is  good,  and  I  love  him  for  that,  but 
I  could  love  him  without  it.  If  he  should  beat  me 
and  abuse  me,  I  should  go  on  loving  him.  I  know 
it.  It  is  a  matter  of  sex,  I  think. 

He  is  strong  and  handsome,  and  I  love  him  for 
that,  and  I  admire  him  and  am  proud  of  him,  but  I 
could  love  him  without  those  qualities.  If  he  were 
plain,  I  should  love  him ;  if  he  were  a  wreck,  I  should 
love  him;  and  I  would  work  for  him,  and  slave  over 
him,  and  pray  for  him,  and  watch  by  his  bedside 
until  I  died. 

Yes,  I  think  I  love  him  merely  because  he  is  mine 
and  is  masculine.  There  is  no  other  reason,  I  sup- 
pose. And  so  I  think  it  is  as  I  first  said:  that  this 
kind  of  love  is  not  a  product  of  reasonings  and 
statistics.  It  just  comes — none  knows  whence — and 
cannot  explain  itself.  And  doesn't  need  to. 
380 


EVE'S    DIARY 

It  is  what  I  think.  But  I  am  only  a  girl,  and  the 
first  that  has  examined  this  matter,  and  it  may  turn 
out  that  in  my  ignorance  and  inexperience  I  have 
not  got  it  right. 

FORTY   YEARS   LATER 

It  is  my  prayer,  it  is  my  longing,  that  we  may  pass 
from  this  life  together — a  longing  which  shall  never 
perish  from  the  earth,  but  shall  have  place  in  the 
heart  of  every  wife  that  loves,  until  the  end  of  time; 
and  it  shall  be  called  by  my  name. 

But  if  one  of  us  must  go  first,  it  is  my  prayer  that 
it  shall  be  I ;  for  he  is  strong,  I  am  weak,  I  am  not 
so  necessary  to  him  as  he  is  to  me — life  without  him 
would  not  be  life;  how  could  I  endure  it?  This 
prayer  is  also  immortal,  and  will  not  cease  from  being 
offered  up  while  my  race  continues.  I  am  the  first 
wife ;  and  in  the  last  wife  I  shall  be  repeated. 

AT   EVE'S   GRAVE 

ADAM  :  Wheresoever  she  was,  there  was  Eden. 


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